


Bridge Over Troubled Water

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: FrattWeek, Gen, Getting Together, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Matt is a little Shit, Sister Maggie - Freeform, Whump, grumpy frank, grumpy matt, possible (spoilery) triggers in the end notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29223555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: It starts with going after a mob, some flirting, and just a little bit of blood.Andthen, things escalate...
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 107
Kudos: 141
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Fratt Week, Marvel Fluff Bingo





	1. Water

**Author's Note:**

> As always and forever, all the thanks to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel/pseuds/PixelByPixel) for hand-holding and betaing!
> 
> One chapter per day per frattweek prompt.
> 
> Written for BadThingsHappenBingo _Bedside Vigil_ and MarvelFluffBingo _Cuddling_ , as well as all _Frattweek 4_ prompts!

It’s been raining for days.

It’s cold enough at night that some mornings the roofs and the sidewalks are iced over, but tonight it’s just all wet and fucking cold. He’s sipping coffee from his Thermos and wearing a rain poncho, but Frank can still feel the damp creep in and leach the warmth out. He doesn’t know how Red does it; he’s got his usual PJ and ropes on and that’s it. Nothing else. He said once he wears thermals underneath when it’s _real cold_ , but who knows what Mr. Martyr here considers real cold?

And that head sock he’s got on: it’s wool or cotton and Frank doesn’t want to imagine how it feels like to wear it when it’s soaking wet. Frank was in the Marine Corps; discomfort won’t stop him, but he also knows that as long as it doesn’t go against the mission, being warm and dry isn’t a sin.

But of course, Red likes suffering.

The idiot grins at him, as if he knows what Frank’s thinking about.

"What?" Frank asks.

"You’re cold."

"No."

"Yes."

"I’m not cold."

Red hums, then looks away. Well, ‘looks,’ anyway. He turns his head as if to stare into the distance, except he’s got a stupid mask that covers his eyes and Frank can’t imagine how no one has ever guessed Red’s the blind lawyer. Same love of speeches, blind, good butt. Not that he’s looked, but… Frank ain’t the blind one. When Red goes on and on about _Justice_ and _Redemption_ and _Second chances_ and _No killing, Frank_ , he’s got to find a distraction, and those cargo pants don’t hide much.

Frank sighs through his nose and steers his thoughts back to the mission; they’ve got a job to do here. But their mark still hasn’t shown up, so they wait. Like they did yesterday, and like they’re probably going to do tomorrow. Frank takes a few mouthfuls of coffee and holds the Thermos over to Red, who shakes his head.

"Suit yourself."

"I don’t need it."

"Sure." He screws the lid back on and shoves the Thermos back into his pack. "McKinney’s not coming tonight."

"Yeah, maybe not." Red jumps down from the parapet he was perched on. "I’m starting to wonder if he knows not to come."

"Who would've tipped him off?" Frank zips his bag closed and shoulders it.

"Well, he knows we’re after him; maybe he decided to move out."

"Maybe." They’ll find him anyway; Frank doesn’t doubt it. He starts to walk to the roof door but he can tell Red isn’t following. "You staying?"

"Nah, but the night’s still young. I’m doing another round of the Kitchen before calling it a… night’s work." Another grin. Yeah, man’s a real comedian.

"No one’s out, Red, not the good people, not the bad." Especially with this rain.

"You know that’s not true."

He knows it’s not true, but Frank also knows that the Kitchen’s more quiet, safer than it’s been in the last twenty years at least; Red doesn’t need to patrol all night long.

"Don’t you have a day job too?"

Red tilts his head. "What’s that got to do with anything?"

"You need to sleep at some point. How’re you gonna save people if you fall asleep at the office, eh?"

He shrugs. "I’ll be fine. Always am, aren’t I?" And then the idiot takes a running leap to the next building over, and Frank rolls his eyes.

Show-off.

Two hours later, as he’s about to fall asleep, there’s a knock on his window.

Frank glares at the ceiling, takes the gun on his bedside table, and stalks to the window. He’s pretty sure it’s Red, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Might be Red, might not, might be Red with company.

It’s only Red, looking even more like a drowned rat than earlier.

"The fuck?" he asks as he lets him in.

"Got new intel," Red says. He’s dripping on Frank’s floor and yeah, it’s a shitty apartment, but that’s not a reason.

"Don’t move."

Red freezes, visibly surprised. "Something wrong?"

"Yeah, you."

"What–"

Frank shuts him up by throwing a towel at his head. "You’re turning my place into a lake, Red."

"I…"

"And take off your stupid mask, yeah?"

"But–"

"No one can see you; just dry off."

"I’m going back out again in a minute." He’s still clutching the towel in front of him, as if he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Frank sighs. "I’m gonna put some coffee on."

Red’s lips part, like he’s confused and doesn’t know what to make of that. _Frank_ doesn’t know what to make of how his own eyes are drawn to that mouth, so he goes to the stove and busies himself there. It’s cold in the building; the heating’s busted and Frank hasn’t cared to fix it because he doesn't plan on staying here for long, but if he’s got to be out from under his blankets he’s not going to suffer and let his balls shrivel and crawl back inside. He’s going to have coffee, and it’s going to be hot.

Finally, as he’s getting a mug out, Red shuffles in. He’s taken his boots off and he’s wearing the towel like a cape, but he's still got the mask on. He looks ridiculous.

"Guess the cape means you’re a true hero, Red."

That gets him a quirked-up mouth. "What, didn’t you play pretend-Superman as a kid?"

He did, but it’s not like he’s going to admit it. "My kids did; _you’re_ all grown-up."

"I liked Batman better."

"Still has a cape."

"Yeah." Red pulls the towel off and folds it before dropping it on the lone kitchen chair. Well, that’s what he’s going for anyway; he misses. Frank frowns. "Sorry," Red says.

Blood loss? Hit on the head? Exhaustion? Who knows, with Red. Frank sets the mug on the counter and goes to pick the towel up when Red doesn’t make a move to do it himself. Didn’t he notice? Or is he going to keel over if he moves too much? "Sit down, yeah?"

Red shakes his head and extends a hand in front of him, as if he’s not sure where the chair is. He’s probably trying to be stealthy and shit, but he really isn't. Frank draws it out and knocks it into Red’s legs, as if by accident. He’s not sure Red buys it, but at least he can save face; Frank wants that intel, whatever it is. He doesn’t need a sulky Red.

"Fine." Red sits heavily, elbows on the table.

Frank pours the boiled water into the mug and stirs the instant coffee in. It’s the middle of the night and he’s allowed to make shitty coffee, all right? But after another look at Red, he fills another mug and wonders what to add to it.

"I’m fine, Frank." Oh, yeah. Obviously. "Coffee’s good."

Okay then. He dumps some powder into the second mug and sets it on the table; Red immediately latches on it and holds it tightly in his hand.

"Thank you."

Frank grunts; he’s not doing it to be nice. If Red doesn’t start spilling in the next minute he’s going to shake him upside down until he does.

"McKinney’s dead." Well, shit; they were supposed to use that asshole to find out who was selling all the new weapons flooding the state. "Car accident, of all things. Found his people holding a wake for him in a new place; I think I know who’s taking over, but they spotted me before I could get a lot more."

"Who?" He leans back against the counter, mug in hand. He realizes it’s the Nelson & Murdock one that Karen got him as a joke, and he’s suddenly grateful Red can’t see.

"It’s his brother. A cousin tried to take over because he’d been in the gang longer, but he got a bullet between the eyes right before I got there."

"Corleone wannabes," Frank mutters into his coffee.

"Yeah."

Under the harsh light of the one light bulb right above them, he can see the peculiar shine of drying blood on Red’s clothes. "You hurt?"

Red shrugs.

There's a dark red streak running from under the wool, down from around his temple to under his shirt. The fabric’s torn, too.

"Take your mask off," Frank says. "You’re bleeding."

"It’s nothing."

"We’re hitting them tomorrow; let me look at your wounds. You need to be ready."

Red’s jaw clenches, the muscles visibly working under the skin. Frank Jr. got like that sometimes, when he didn’t get his way; he’d frown and lift his chin and try to look like a grownup. It didn’t help that Frank and Maria pinched his baby-soft cheek whenever he did. He wonders if he should pinch Red’s cheek too, just to piss him off, but it’s late (early) and he just wants to go back to bed.

"I’ll get my first aid kit," he says instead, and when he’s back from his cramped bathroom Red hasn’t budged. "Take it off, Red."

"I should get out of your hair," he replies instead.

"Yeah, well, you’re here." Frank doesn’t point out that if he hasn’t already left, it’s probably for a reason.

Finally, Red slides a finger under the fabric; it sticks to his temple but he gives a final yank and it peels off all the way. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

Frank takes Red’s chin in hand and twists his head this way and that, looking at where the blood came from; Red is surprisingly quiet. His hair is still wet, plastered to his skull, and Frank has to brush it back to finally find the cut. Red keeps his eyes closed, and lets Frank dab at the cut with an antiseptic wipe and put butterfly stitches over it.

"Anywhere else?" He’s pretty sure there is, but it might be stuff he can’t suture.

"Nah."

"You better not pass out tomorrow."

"I won’t."

Frank briefly entertains the idea of telling him to crash on his couch, or maybe drive him back to his place, but he’s not Red’s keeper. "Text me the place, yeah? I’ll meet you there."

Red pushes away from the table and stands up, wincing a little. He makes an aborted gesture to cover his chest but frowns and lowers his arm, and Frank guesses he’s got badly bruised ribs. Red shoves his head sock in a pocket, then finally opens his eyes. "I don’t…" He sighs. "I don’t think I can…" He starts picking at the stupid ropes around his wrists, and suddenly Frank gets it.

"You planning on walking home, like a regular dude?"

"What if I am?" He pauses. "I _am_ a regular dude."

Yeah, sure. And his place’s probably an hour’s walk away, and Frank thinks maybe that’s not a great idea. Not that parkouring his way through the city with possibly busted ribs is one either, given the way he couldn't even pinpoint the chair a moment ago. Frank needs him in top shape for their hit; Red breaking his neck in some dirty alley isn’t going to help. Or catching pneumonia. Can’t be stealthy while coughing out your lungs, right?

"I’ll drive you home," he says.

Red’s eyes widen and almost look at Frank. "You don’t…"

"Shut up."

Red’s teeth click when he closes his mouth, and Frank likes him better that way.


	2. Nail

They eventually do get to the warehouse, but not before the next weekend. Red texted him the day after he’d paid him a night visit, but it was to say the place he’d thought to be their new base of operations wasn’t. It took a few more days and some digging, but finally they found out where the weapons were stored, at least: in a rundown area in the Bronx that looks like it hasn’t seen a law-abiding citizen in years. Well, it still won’t tonight; Frank makes no claims regarding himself and Red, well. Red knows very well he isn’t, either.

Once they find each other, Frank gives him a once over and nods to himself; Red moves easily and quickly. Frank doesn’t need a sluggish Red who misses his targets.

"Like what you see?" the asshole asks.

How can he even tell Frank looked? "Aren’t you supposed to be blind?"

"Can’t give away my trade secrets, Frank." He smirks, and Frank wants to make him eat his too-white teeth.

He looks away instead, and focuses on their target. There are a couple of guards posted around the main entrance, but what’s inside is worth too much not to have other goons stationed elsewhere, probably hiding.

"Can you tell where they put their men?"

"Yep."

Jesus, Red can get on his nerves like no one else. " _And?_ "

"Five on the roof, four on the ground, one car with three guys inside doing rounds, and six in the warehouse itself."

"They’re not fucking around."

"Neither are we."

Frank opens his rifle case and starts assembling his gun, and when he hears Red take a deep breath he speaks first. "Can’t promise I won’t kill them, but I’ll try to go for incapacitation. That good enough for ya?"

Red sighs; he’s not happy but it’s not like he has much of a choice anyway. "Yeah, fine."

Rifle in place, Frank follows the car with his scope as it slowly patrols until he’s got a clear shot, and – bang. He shoots out a tire; the vehicle swerves and hits a wall. The guys inside scramble to get out and two men who’d been guarding the main door rush to help them out; as soon as they’re close enough Frank uses an incendiary round on the car, through the window. It catches fire and the guys get lightly crisped, but Frank took care not to aim near the gas tank so they’re far enough from the car not to be burned alive when it really goes up in flames.

"Ouch," Red says.

"Didn’t kill them."

"You didn’t." He pauses. "I set a guy on fire once. Turned out he was immortal at the time, so he got over it."

Frank stares at him. Immortal _at the time?_ Altar boy _setting people on fire?_ "Didn’t know you had it in you."

"Hey, I got layers; I’m mysterious." He rests his elbows on the parapet. "And, yeah, I was pretty desperate. Bought me enough time to escape."

Frank shakes his head and turns his attention back to their target; the burned and limping men are sitting on the curb and another guy gets out of the warehouse and goes to talk to them. They don’t seem too worried; they haven’t realized it wasn’t just an accident, which Frank thinks is pretty underwhelming, for mobsters. But at least it’s good for Red and him. With Red’s insistence on letting assholes live, Frank's got to get creative to incapacitate without risking their targets getting feisty after shaking off a beating, but now they’ve got some injured and they’re still unsuspecting and…

"They’re going to a medic," Red says, head cocked.

"What?"

But as he watches, Frank sees a large SUV roll up to them and stop; a new guy gets out and helps four injured men climb in. A sixth stays outside; Frank checks him out through his scope but he doesn’t seem hurt. No medic for him, then.

"That’s five less."

"Yeah."

"We should hit before they call for backup." He slides his stupid batons out of his thigh holster. "I’m going for the four on the roofs; wait for me."

"Hey-" But he’s already leaped off without getting the lecture on not being the boss of Frank. "You’re _not_ , asshole," Frank mutters anyway. He wants to go down and start shooting, but Curt keeps telling him about playing nice with others and that he can’t always come bail Frank out when he gets in too deep, so Frank gives Red five minutes and tries to track him via the scope on his rifle.

Finally, he spots him lurking above one of his targets; the little shit waves at Frank then throws one of his batons at the guy’s head. Dude’s out and Red jumps down from the higher rooftop he was on and goes to zip-tie him and, from what Frank can see, stuff something in his mouth. Red ninjas his way to the other men and dispatches them just as efficiently, but Frank isn’t impressed. It’s flashy, but much slower and way more risky than a bullet between the eyes. It’s certainly more quiet, but with a silencer and from a distance Frank's pretty sure he wouldn't have alerted the goons.

At least this way he’s not getting Red all up in his face, trying to fight him like a pissed-off mutt because Frank decided to take Hell’s Kitchen-relevant matters into his own hands, yeah. Red’s pretty territorial, and that mob operates and sells its goods right in the middle of his turf. Frank could have gone after them on his lonesome, but then he’d have made another enemy and Red was easier to deal with as an occasional ally than…

"Miss me?"

Frank doesn’t jump. "No."

"Aw. Okay, so we’ve got eight left; two are outside. You ready?"

Fuck yeah. The ones inside will have access to a lot of ammo and weaponry if they need it, and Frank’s looking forward to the challenge. He gives one last look at Red’s stupid shirt which broadcasts his refusal to wear even just a light vest, but what can you do? He’s as stubborn as they come, and if he wants to get killed from sheer stupidity then it’s his own damn problem.

Plastic bullets suck, but PBR are less lethal than regular and Frank makes do. They knock out the door guards, slip in, and then it’s a free-for-all. The men inside are trying to draw fire away from the merchandise, but the place is cramped with the boxes piled up everywhere and it doesn’t take too long to incapacitate the six left. They’re no Marines. But Red doesn’t look happy; he’s pursing his lips and his head is tilted. He’s hearing something.

"What is it?"

"There's someone else."

"You said six; we got six."

"Yeah, I think they got in when we were fighting outside." He gestures at the unconscious guys. "Drag them out; I’m going for the new one."

Hell no.

Frank follows him until they reach a door; Matt nods at him and Frank shoots at the lock and then kicks it open. A skinny kid is backed into a corner, brandishing a nail gun of all things. He’s got pimples and sketchy facial hair, and it’s giving Frank pre-Marines flashbacks. Unpleasant ones. He already hates him.

"I’m not one of them!"

Frank raises his gun. "Yeah?"

"Not lying," Red says.

"Didn’t ask." Kid’s about to piss himself, Frank’s sure.

Red takes a step forward, hands raised like he wants to talk him down, and Frank wonders if he realizes it’s not an actual gun.

"Hey, look, we’re not going to kill you, okay?"

Frank grits his teeth. The kid’s hand shakes harder.

"Don’t come any closer! I’m armed!"

Red stops. "Fine," he replies mildly. "Who are you, if you’re not one of them?"

"I’m just the odd jobs guy! They called me half an hour ago, said they needed me, and I thought they wanted me to pack stuff!" He waves a hand at the crates next to him. What an idiot. It’s either that, or he’s definitely not just the _odd jobs guy_.

"Of course. Just let me–"

Red moves forward again, the kid screams, Frank realizes he’s about to shoot fucking nails at them at any moment. He tackles Red down before he gets pointy things in the face or worse, and feels a sharp pain high on the back of his leg. Shit, he got hit. There's a loud crash as Pimples drops the nail gun and tries to run out but Frank shoots him in the back with a rubber bullet and he goes down, all quiet now. Probably passed out.

"What was that?" Red says, wriggling out from under Frank. "Didn’t sound like any gun I know."

"No shit." Frank grunts and manages to get up, even if he has to use the crates. "It’s a nail gun, Red. Not a gun gun."

"A _nail_ gun?"

"Good for crates, shitty weapon." Could you kill with one? Yes, if lucky and/or motivated. Could you reliably kill with one? No. Shitty weapon.

Red sniffs. "Smells like blood. You got hurt?"

"No." Frank yanks the nails, _plural_ , out of his thigh even though he shouldn’t, and he feels blood rush down his leg. Not enough to be concerning, enough to be annoying.

"You _did,_ " and there’s way too much glee in his voice.

"Dream on, Red."

"Did you get… nailed?"

" _No_." He almost throws the nails away but thinks better of it and puts them in his jacket; the police will guess who did the job, but it would be stupid to leave incriminating DNA when he can avoid it.

"Where?"

"Nowhere." Frank leaves the crate room with a dignified stalk and Red follows, the kid thrown over his shoulder.

"You’re limping."

Frank takes the arms of two guys lying near the door and drags them out. "No."

They make a pile of the goons on the other side of the street and Frank gets back in to pick some fancy new weapons for himself, then he sets some C4 around.

"It’s not going to hurt them, right?"

It could, but Frank keeps that to himself. They’re not killing them on purpose at least, and it will have to be enough. "They’ll be fine."

Just as he’s about to hit the detonator, Red puts his fucking hand on his ass. "You got nailed in the _ass?_ "

Jesus fucking Christ. "Upper thigh. Take your hand away before I shoot it off." He’s not imagining the squeeze he gets before he pushes the button, and it’s yet another thing he’s going to be pissed about.

Later.

Red doesn’t protest when Frank asks if he wants a lift back to the Kitchen. It’s a bit unusual, but Frank suspects that the altar boy thinks he can’t drive while bleeding from the a… the thigh. He can. He’s not bleeding that much; he balled up an old shirt and taped it around his leg to put some pressure on it and put some rags on the driver’s seat so he doesn’t end up with a suspicious stain on the fabric, and it’ll do.

He’s had worse.

"I hope they’ll leave the city alone now," Red says.

They won’t. They’ll regroup and rebuild; these people are like cockroaches. Stamp out ten; a hundred more are lurking in the dark, waiting to come out. Frank doesn’t reply, and Red keeps quiet for the rest of the ride. He looks a bit pinched; he’s probably thinking along the same lines as Frank but doesn’t want to admit it. Too bad.

When they reach Red’s block Frank leaves the engine idling, waiting for Red to get out, but he doesn’t.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Come on up; I’ll check your wound."

"I don’t need you for that."

"Ever tried stitching up your own ass, Frank?"

He has, as a matter of fact. Tried, that is; he had to ask for help. He doesn’t need a repeat of that; it was bad enough the first time. "Probably doesn’t need stitches." It probably does.

"Aw, don’t be scared; I promise I won’t ogle," and if he didn’t have his head sock on Frank’s pretty sure he’d have seen Red raising his eyebrows at him. As it is, he has to see his stupid, challenging grin, and Frank sighs and turns the engine off. He can’t let a challenge go unanswered.


	3. Ring

Red’s place has to be in a low-rise without an elevator, of course. Not that Frank can’t walk up a bunch of stairs, because he’s a fucking Marine, but his upper thigh is killing him.

"How’s your ass, Frank?"

"Fine," he grits out.

"Hm. I thought the stairs would suck but still be easier on you than the fire escape."

"Don’t need easy."

Red only hums. Frank trudges on in silence, hoping no one decides to come out of their front door and look at them going up the stairs, Frank with a bloody hole in his pants and climbing up thanks to sheer will and the banister, and Red leading the way while dragging fingers along the wall. Which he doesn’t usually do, now that Frank thinks about it.

When they reach the last landing, Red sticks his hand behind a radiator to get the keys to his door, and once again Frank is appalled at how unconcerned with basic security this idiot can be.

The apartment is dark, until suddenly it’s flooded with bright neon lights from a billboard outside like some real-life _Blade Runner_ shit. Frank blinks at it for a moment then looks for a light switch. He finds one, flicks it, and nothing happens. He sighs.

Red reappears from wherever he was, a box in his hand and his face bare. Not that Frank can make out much more than that. "Oh yeah, I don’t really need the lights, so…"

Great.

"Drop your pants, Frank." He sets the medkit on the small, round table and opens it. "Gonna clean it first."

"I can do that myself."

"I want to _ass_ ess the wound first; you bled a lot."

Frank sighs, but removes the makeshift bandage and takes off his boots and pants while Red washes his hands. The pants are ruined; the nails left a jagged hole that’s too big to be patched. Frank puts both hands flat on the table and leans on it, trying not to think of Red kneeling behind him and running his hand on his leg. He starts at the ankle for some reason, and follows the blood up with the tip of his fingers.

"Tickles?" Red asks in a low voice.

"Just get on with it."

He does; Frank can feel him delicately touching the skin around his wound and he can even feel his breath, hot on his… thigh.

"It’s inflamed, but not too bad. The nails went deep, but hit mostly muscle."

"Mostly?"

"Well, and some fat."

Frank huffs.

"Okay, here we go."

It’s hard to say how long it lasts. Red irrigates the wound, dabs around it, then does a few stitches. Frank has no idea how he does it without sight, how he threads the needle and knows where to stab it into his flesh. The knots feel just perfect, holding the skin together but not too tight.

"You’re good at it."

"Yeah, I got practice early on."

"You fought bullies at school?"

Red laughs, his breath making Frank’s skin break into goosebumps. Not because he’s cold, either. "No. Well, yeah, later on, after I got to the orphanage. Might have tripped some other kids with my cane or, uh, worse. They never tattled on me, didn’t want to admit they couldn't land one on the blind kid."

Frank can’t help a snicker. He’d have liked to know that kid, before he became Red. "Yeah, I can imagine. You were a little punk, yeah?"

"Yeah, I guess I was."

"I’m not surprised." He must have been a tough kid: blinded, orphaned, but never staying down. That’s not his thing, staying down. "That how you learned all that ninja shit? By tripping nasty kids?"

"How I learned… well, that’s another story," he replies. "My dad didn’t want me to fight, not like him. He was a boxer, did you know?" Red stands up and starts packing the supplies he didn't use. "He came home all bloody sometimes. That’s when I did my first stitches."

Frank stares. "How old were you?"

"I don’t remember exactly; small." He snaps the kit closed and leaves Frank standing there, a bit reeling. He’s trying to picture a scrawny, skinny boy and a big guy with cuts and bruises on his face, but all he can think about is Frank Jr., Lisa. _His_ kids. They never saw him like that, he made sure of it; all his fighting happened overseas back then. He didn’t want them anywhere near the war, near violence and death.

Boxing is not war, of course, but he’s pretty sure Red didn’t have a very sheltered childhood either, even before losing his sight and his dad. The way he talks, what he fights for… he grew up here, and a small-time boxer like his dad can’t have made a lot of money. He’s been a fighter since he was born. A survivor.

Frank watches him walk out of what must be the bathroom, then put a hand against the doorjamb; he looks tired.

"Thanks for the stitch job, Red. I’ll get out of your hair." Once he manages to put his ruined pants back on.

"Do you want to borrow sweats?"

Sure, it would be a lot easier. "Yeah."

Red turns to what looks like the bedroom and walks straight into the sliding door. He stumbles back, puts his hand flat on the door, and runs it along until he can get in the room.

"You okay, Red?"

No reply.

Frank watches him walk slowly around the bed, until he gets to a dresser; there again he carefully feels for the right drawer, opens it, finally extracts something – sweats, Frank assumes – and gingerly makes his way back into the main room. Frank stops him just before he bumps into the coffee table, takes his arm and pushes him down to sit on the couch.

"What’s wrong?" The billboard outside flashes pinks and purples, but it’s enough to see Red’s eyes and mouth are tight. "You hurt?"

Red’s head moves like he’s trying to pinpoint a sound, but can’t quite manage it. "Frank?" he says. He doesn’t sound sure. He holds out the sweats and when Frank takes them, Red grasps his wrist. "Yeah, that’s you."

Okay, what? "Red, you hear me?"

"Frank," he repeats. "Headache. Getting worse. You can… let yourself out." He lets Frank’s wrist go and lies down on the couch, looking miserable.

Well, shit. Frank drops the sweats and goes to the bathroom; he feels for the light switch and lo and behold, _facta est lux_. Yeah, Red’s giving him Sunday school flashbacks. He looks into the cupboard under the sink and on the shelf, but even in the first aid kit he can’t find any painkillers. He leaves the light on and checks the kitchen, and finally finds some pills in a dusty bottle that he brings back to the couch.

"Here, Red," he says as he drops the bottle on Red’s tightly curled hands.

Except of course it startles Red and Frank catches the fist that would almost, but not quite, have gotten him. He picks the pills again and folds Red’s fingers around them, watches him run his fingers on the bottle until he finds raised dots on a label stuck to the side.

"Oh," he mutters. "Thanks." He unscrews the top and shakes one out in his hand, swallows it dry. Frank watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down, and takes the bottle back. Red then stands on shaky legs and steadies himself with a hand on Frank’s chest, then smiles. "Oh. Ears ringing too much; can’t hear your heart, but I can feel it." He pats Frank’s heart then turns away, one hand held slightly in front of him, and shuffles to the bathroom. Frank watches him go, wondering what to do. Should he leave, now? He wouldn't have let an injured fellow Marine to fend on his own, but Red’s not a squad mate. He didn’t ask for help, and he’s home; Frank doesn’t have to stay. Red’s a big boy, yeah.

Except he starts stripping once he’s in the bathroom, and the light is still on, and Frank can see everything – the muscles in his back moving when he drops his shirt out of sight, his ass when he crouches to undo his laces, his – Frank looks away. He’s grateful Red’s bat ears aren’t working right now, because he’s pretty sure he’d have heard Frank’s swallow. Red’s moving cautiously, like he’s not too sure of his balance, and for some reason he’s still not closing the door; maybe he thinks Frank’s already left. Can’t he… smell him or something? Then Red steps into the shower and closes the glass door, turns the water on, and all Frank can see is the blurry outline of his body, leaning under the spray and not moving.

The memory suddenly hits him, of Maria locking herself in the bathroom when she had a migraine. Sometimes she took baths, sometimes showers; she said the warmth helped, and the water’s white noise too. He never ogled her then; he just took care to be as quiet as possible and shushed the kids when they got loud, made some ginger tea for when she’d be out.

Red isn’t his wife. He shouldn't be here.

Frank picks up the sweats, puts them on, and hurries out.


	4. Park

Frank doesn’t hear from Red for about two weeks; he hears _about_ him on the news when he and Nelson win a big case against a bank, and when he turns on the news he sees them talking to the press about how this ruling will make a difference, justice and the law, whatever. He guesses the more juicy bits will be kept for Karen, who still writes for the Bulletin from time to time, but he doesn't really care. Red looks good; he seems to hear the journalists’ questions just fine.

Frank shuts the TV off. He’s made a deal with the landlady: fix the heater, have one month of free rent. It might turn it into a more regular thing, where he’d fix things around the place and stay for free. Saving money here would make it easier to keep a few hideouts around, safehouses and weapons caches, so he’s going with it for now. Pete Castiglione can have an official address; the Punisher? Not so much.

Word on the street is that the McKinney mob has been kicked out of Harlem; the Cage guy runs a tight ship. It’s more or less quiet in the Kitchen, but Frank hears it’s heating up in Queens; maybe he’ll go check it out tonight. For now he’s walking through Central Park, remembering the past and trying not to. He hasn’t been back since before, and he needs to make sure he’s still familiar with the place; eventually he’s going to have to be here at night. So he’s wandering through, memories from picnics and Frisbee games and butchering songs on his guitar floating through his mind. They don’t hurt as much as they used to, or maybe the pain has become familiar; it’s part of him now. It’s all he’s got left of Maria, of Lisa, of Frank Jr.

There’s a shout and he’s knocked off his feet; he lands on grass and when he looks he sees a kid lying over his legs, looking as surprised as Frank feels. Kid’s 6, 7 tops; he’s blinking up at him and he’s missing a tooth.

"Hey," Frank says.

The kid just gapes at him.

"Can you let go of my legs?" He tries to sound gentle, tries to remember how he used to speak to his own children. He’s not sure he manages; his voice sounds alien to his ears.

"Mikey, please let the gentleman go free."

Frank looks up to find a small nun, with a veil and a cross and everything, looking down at them. "Ma’am," he says.

"I trust you’re not hurt?"

"No." He looks at her stern, unsmiling face and adds, once he’s sitting on the grass instead of flat on his back, "Sister." He remembers Sunday school _vividly_.

She nods and stops the kid, Mikey, before he runs off. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"

He blinks up at her, she raises her eyebrows, his shoulders sag. She’s _good_.

"Msorrysir."

"Mikey."

The kid glances at Frank and repeats, looking at his shoes: "I’m sorry, sir."

"It’s fine. Just look where you’re going, yeah?"

"Yessir."

The kid runs off and the nun watches him go, her eyes narrowed. "He never does. At least he won’t be run over by a car here."

"Well, no harm done this time." Frank gets up and holds out a hand. "I’m Pete."

She looks down at it, then back at his face. "No you’re not." She finally shakes his hand, and gives him a sly smile. "You don’t look that scary, Mr. Castle. "

"Uh…"

"What? It’s not like your face has never made the front page."

"Right." It’s just that people usually don’t look too closely.

She waves at him. "I thought you’d be more, how shall I put it? Bigger. Taller."

Ouch, but he likes her chutzpah. "Sorry to disappoint, Sister."

"I’m Maggie," she says. "And not disappointed, just surprised. You make a big splash, when you put your mind to it."

"Yeah, guess I do."

She nods. "We have a common acquaintance."

"I’m not religious, Sister."

She snickers. "Oh, I didn’t mean God." She looks behind her at a bench, where a man with red glasses is playing tug-of-war with a little girl. She’s obviously pulling with all her might, to no avail. Another girl comes to help her and the man – Red, because _of course_ it’s him – makes a show of being dragged forward, before falling to his knees. The girls are ecstatic and run around him holding the rope high over their heads, like a trophy; Red stands up and dusts his knees and laughs with them. He looks happy, leaning against his cane and chatting with two little girls.

"What’s he doing here?"

"Same as you, I imagine: simply enjoying a day out."

Then it hits him: she knows Red, but _who_ does she know? The lawyer? Or the other guy? Could she _know_?

"Even a lawyer needs some fresh air, however much he pretends he doesn’t." She adds, "He was your lawyer, right?"

"Yeah. He, uh, work for you?"

She glances down for a second. "No, although he’s helped us with paperwork before. Matthew grew up with us, at St. Agnes, and he goes to our church. The children love him, although they rarely see him."

"He’s a busy man."

"He is. Come, we have some cookies set aside for us grownups; I’m sure you need to recoup after that fall."

"I…" He looks at Red, who’s turned his face in their direction. "I don’t want to impose."

"You wouldn't."

There’s Sister Maggie, there’s Red, and there are other nuns too, scattered around and keeping an eye on the kids. One is kneeling and spraying something on a skinned palm, another is playing a board game with a group, a third is leading a handful of kids in singalongs.

_And there’s Red._

But the Sister is already dragging Frank to the bench and Red has turned to face them fully; Frank can’t escape.

So there he is, shaking Red’s hand and calling him _Murdock_ and having a cookie and then coffee is thrust in his hands and they're making small talk about the weather and… he shakes his head.

"I’m sorry," he says, cutting Red off mid-rant about something or other. "Thank you for the snack, Sister, but I got… something. Yeah. I should…" He shuffles his feet like he’s five and jabs a thumb behind himself and hurries away, throwing his emptied coffee cup in the first trash can he sees.

He can’t do this, he thinks. He can’t. He’s not a small talk guy, not anymore; he’s not the kind of guy who can lean on the fence and chat with his neighbor about the state of the lawn and playdates for the kids. He came here to do recon; nothing less, nothing more. Red can be whoever he likes on his downtime – which he probably doesn’t call his _downtime_ , but Frank doesn’t _care_ – and have fun saving the downtrodden as a lawyer by day and as a chimney sweeper cosplayer by night, whatever.

Frank’s outta here.

Red is sitting on his van’s roof, kicking his heels against the body of the van, when Frank is about to drive to Queens.

"Hi, Frank."

"Get off."

"Ooh. Invitation?" He spreads his knees a bit wider, and it feels way more obscene than it really is. Frank’s reading too much into it, is all.

"It’s your funeral if you’re still up there when I drive off."

"Drive off to where?"

"None of your business."

"Hm." He leans back on his elbows, legs open and dangling, arching his back like a cat and sighing long and pleased. Frank says nothing. "Oh, well. Wanted to ask if you wanted to come finish off what’s left of the McKinneys’ business, maybe shake out some intel on their provider, but I guess you’ve got better things to do."

Frank tears his eyes away from Red’s thighs. "Trouble in Queens."

"Not for long, Spidey’s on it. And Wade."

Fuck.

"So, you in?"

If he still believed in god, Frank would pray for patience and fortitude. As it is he just thinks, _Shit_. "I guess."

"Try not to kill anyone?"

"Don’t push it, Red. Already got my good deed in today, with the nun."

Red laughs and slides down the van, landing a hair’s breadth from Frank. If they breathed any harder, their chests would touch. Frank takes a step back.

"You certainly made Maggie happy; she likes being scary."

"She’s five feet tall, Red."

"Uh huh."

"She didn’t scare me."

"Of course not."

They get into the van, and Frank starts the engine. "Did she scare you, when you were a kid?"

"She scared everyone; that’s her brand. You do something stupid, she won’t let you forget."

"Yeah? She knows about your stupid death wish?" Would he tell the Sister about Daredevil? But Red doesn’t reply, and Frank glances away from the road for a second. Frank can tell he’s hit a nerve, and he doesn’t _want_ it to but his voice softens anyway. "I meant not wearing any kind of armor."

Red sighs and finally says, "Yeah." Which doesn’t really answer the question Frank was asking, and opens up several more.

They don’t talk about anything but tonight’s job after that.

Once they’re done, though, things feel different. Red is wearing that savage grin he has when he’s punched and kicked to his heart’s content and gotten what he wanted, and Frank is happy they got the intel they came for. Oh, not the details, but enough tips to help trace the shipments back to their source. Frank’s pretty sure he won’t like what they’ll find at the end of the trail, but they can’t do anything about that right now.

He packs his guns back into the van while Red is bouncing on the balls of his feet like an overexcited toddler, and Frank tries not to smile.

"Are you high?"

Red shakes his head. "Nah. But we’re getting somewhere, Frank! We’ll get them; I can feel it."

"Yeah. You want a lift back?"

"I’m good." His stomach grumbles loudly.

"And hungry."

"I could eat." He tilts his head. "Anything open around here?"

Is he suggesting they go for a bite together? Frank’s not sure, and he’s not sure how he feels about it either. "We drove past some place earlier," he finally offers.

"Ooh, a _place_. Sounds fancy."

"It was open; it said 24/7 in the window."

Red pursed his lips. "What about Joe’s Diner? You know where it is, yeah?"

"Halfway to the Kitchen, yeah." Frank watches a smile grow on Red’s face, the kind of smile that’s too guileless for the Devil’s half-hidden face. "Guess you’re getting that lift then."

Once in the van, Red starts taking his ropes off and even his mask; without those his outfit doesn’t look too suspicious.

"You planning on waltzing in like that?" Frank asks after glancing away from the road to look at him.

"I was hoping you had a baseball hat or something I could borrow."

So he wants to go in and sit down and pretend to be some random Mr. Regular Dude with late-night cravings. Well, why not? Frank could eat too; the afternoon’s cookie was hours ago. "Might have."

Frank parks a block away from Joe’s and roots through the bag of clothes he keeps in the back of the ban. He finds a loose-fitting jacket and a hat, and hands them over to Red.

"You going in as a sighted guy?"

"I could. I know what I’m having."

"Do they know you?"

"I’ve come a few times with Foggy, yeah."

"So they could recognize you."

"Not with your handouts."

Yep, even with the handouts. Frank tears his eyes away from Red’s lips and says instead, "Don’t be so sure."

"Ya think?"

"Yeah."

"I don’t really want to be a blind guy tonight, Frank. I can’t anyway; I don’t have my cane, or glasses."

"Just hold my arm, like you do with your buddy, yeah?"

"I wouldn't have left my cane in…" He sighs. "You think they could recognize me?"

"They might."

"What about you?"

"People rarely do, when the skull’s hidden. And if they do they’re too scared to say anything. Win-win."

"I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah. C’mon, let’s go get those fries, yeah?" Now that the idea’s been planted, Frank's looking forward to Joe’s Cheeseburger Special (with Extra Fries). A man’s gotta eat, you know?

"It’s a date!"

Frank rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest. He can let him have his little fun; Frank doesn’t care.

He closes the van, Red grips his elbow way more tightly than he probably does with Nelson, and off they go. Must be jarring to wear an outfit that usually means freedom of movement to him, but still have to pretend he can’t do what he, in fact, _can_ do. Frank doesn’t begrudge him this; if he wants to be pissy about it, he can. They cross one street, walk along some rundown buildings; Red’s fingers loosen, and then right as they cross the last street tires are screeching, engines are roaring toward them. Gunfire.

Red pushes him away but he doesn’t move fast enough to get out of the way himself; in slow-motion, Frank sees the pick-up swerve and hit Red, sees him bounce on the asphalt. The bike avoids Red’s head by an inch and speeds away while the pick-up truck rights itself and goes after it, but the gunner inside leans out and shoots at Red. He jerks when the bullets hit, and then everything is dead quiet.

One body lies just under a streetlight, in a pool of red.


	5. Red

Frank rushes forward and feels for Red’s neck, his pulse; Frank’s fingers are shaking so hard he can’t find it and he thinks for a moment that it’s too late. But no, the pulse is fast and thready but it’s there, so he takes his knife out of his ankle holster and holds it under Red’s nose: the blade mists up; he’s breathing.

He’s alive.

Frank runs his hands over Red’s body; all he can feel is warm sticky blood everywhere and bones moving where they shouldn’t and – yes. One bullet wound near the liver, one in the thigh; Frank tries to cover them with his hands, to put pressure on them, but he can’t stop it – the blood is pulsing through his fingers, his head is throbbing, he can’t see anything but red, red, Red. His hands are covered in red, his hands are covering Red, they need a medevac _now_ – "Medic!" he yells. "Man down, man down!"

Red’s face is bone-white under the blood. He can’t take his hands away, and someone is tugging on his arms. His head hurts; he blinks through the pain and the blood in his eyes. _Put pressure on the wound, even if it hurts._ He remembers that.

"Sir? Sir, you need to step back now."

He can’t take his hands away. They’re trying to pull him back and he wants to fight them but he can’t take his hands away. He yells.

"You’ve done well, sir, now let us do our job."

He sees a red cross; more red, yeah, but that red doesn't spill everywhere. He falls back on his ass, watches Red disappear behind too many people.

"Shit, pupils not responsive," he hears.

"He’s blind." Frank clears his throat. "He’s blind," he repeats. "They never are."

They say more words, but they don’t mean nothing. One medic comes to try and poke at him but he pushes them away.

"Him. Help him."

"You’re in shock."

" _Help him_."

The medic wraps a space blanket around Frank’s shoulders and leaves him be. Finally, he sees the stretcher being lifted and Red – they’re taking him away. There’s blood on the pavement, blood that should be inside Red but isn’t. "Wait," he says.

"We’re taking him to Metro General; he needs surgery stat."

Frank gets to his feet. "I’m coming."

"I’ll call him a cab," someone says from the curb.

Frank turns to face the guy and snarls; the guy takes a step back then stands his ground.

"I just don’t think you should drive, man," the guy adds. He’s trying to be gentle.

"I’ll get him there."

Frank looks to his right; a Black cop, badge around his neck, is waiting. He knows him. His head is pounding. He can’t remember his name.

"I’m not arresting you this time, all right? And thanks for calling us, Joe," he tells curb guy.

"It’s just bad for business, Brett."

"That it is, Joe; that it is."

The ambulance drives away, shrieking and flashing and with Red inside.

Frank remembers, suddenly. "Mahoney."

"Yeah. Go figure, seeing you at a shootout. With Matt, of all people."

"We were going to Joe’s." Frank follows Mahoney to his car, sits in the passenger seat. His hands are shaking on his knees, covered with drying blood. He sticks them in his jacket pockets.

"Buddying up with your lawyer?" Frank shrugs. "Didn’t find his cane or his glasses; guess they were thrown away on impact. Or maybe we won’t find them? What do you think?"

Frank just stares at the lights outside – traffic lights, neon lights. He can’t see or hear the ambulance anymore.

"Jeez, he’s finally snapped."

"Heard you."

"Oh, good. So, Castle, tell me. How does a guy like you end up going for a late-night snack with a guy like him?"

He shrugs.

"Wait, you’re not _dating_ , are you?"

"Fuck you, Mahoney."

"Well not _me_ , obviously."

Frank grits his teeth.

"Look: you’re in shock, and I don’t think you had anything to do with what just happened, right? It’s not your style, not your MO. You weren’t out for blood in front of Joe’s with a blind lawyer."

"No."

"Well then."

After that, the only voice in the car is whoever’s speaking on Mahoney’s police radio, set on low.

The car slows down, and Mahoney steers it into the parking lot. "Come on, I’ll make sure they let you stick around, okay?"

Frank stares at him. Why would he?

"Yeah, yeah, I’m a bleedin’ heart all right. I get the feeling if I don’t you’ll shoot up the place."

"I won’t."

"Maybe not, but no one needs you threatening nurses until you get access."

When the car stops Frank gets out in a hurry, then considers ditching the gun he’s still carrying. Nah, he’ll keep it. "You’re going to look into it?"

"You bet I am; it’s my job, Castle. Now let’s go in; I’ll tell them you’re his partner."

Partner. Frank follows him through the Metro General parking lot, his thoughts all jumbled; he knows he’s in shock but it’s worse than that. Nothing makes sense; everything’s out of sync. They’re not partners like Mahoney thinks they are, but he’s not going to let anyone near Red that isn’t a nurse or a doc and he’s gonna run with it. Partners. Whatever.

He thinks of a little kid who learned how to thread a suture needle. He thinks of a little kid waking up blind in a hospital, a little kid waking up an orphan, all alone in the world. He remembers waking up a widower, a father without children.

He takes a deep breath and steps into the hospital.

He’s sitting on a plastic chair that can’t stand on its four legs; he’s moving slightly, rhythmically, lifting one leg after the other. Front left, front right, back right, back left. The leg that goes from in the air to on the floor makes a clacking sound every time, every four seconds. He’s counting time. One, two, three, _clack_. One, two, three, _clack_. Front right.

People come and talk to him but he ignores them. He’s sitting on a plastic chair, counting time by the sound of metal on linoleum.

"You should get checked out," someone says.

One, two, three, _clack_.

"Do you want to wash up?"

One, two three, _clack_.

"He’s still in surgery; it’s going to be a while."

He stops the count, looks up.

"I can’t tell you anything else, I’m sorry."

One, two, three, _clack_.

As long as he focuses on that, he can’t see the dried blood on his hands, his clothes. His pants are stiff with it, and he didn’t look when a janitor came and mopped the red footprints he made. Gunshots, blood, someone bleeding out in his arms. His head throbs.

"Shit, Frank, you look like hell."

One, two three, _clack_.

"Stop that. Come on, I brought you a change of clothes; let’s get you cleaned up and then we’ll go down to the cafeteria."

He looks up again. Karen’s here, her chin set in that stubborn, infuriating way. "I’m not hungry."

"Yeah? Too bad. Get up and wash that blood off; you’re scaring everyone."

"Not you."

Her smile is cold. "Matt is getting out of surgery soon, then he’ll be in the ICU, and _then_ maybe they’ll allow visits. They won’t let you in like that."

"They won’t anyway; I’m not family."

"Brett told them you were his life partner; of course they will."

"I don’t…"

She sighs. "You’re as bad as Matt. Not a compliment, by the way."

She kicks his calf when he doesn't move, and he ends up following her to an empty room with a shower stall. She points at it and drops a bag on the counter, and closes the door behind herself. He looks into the bag and sees a shirt, sweatpants. He’s got no idea where they’re from, but they look clean and not caked in blood. In _Red’s_ blood. He steps into the shower and closes his eyes so he doesn’t see the water turn red, doesn’t see the red disappear down the drain.

It’s his fault. That blood shouldn’t wash away so easily.

He doesn’t know how long he stays under the spray, but when he gets out, his ankle holster back in place and the gun in his waistband, Karen’s there, waiting for him. She hands him battered clogs that look like what nurses wear around here, and leads the way to the stairs. He doesn’t think he could have dealt with the elevators; all the stretchers and the visitors and the sick in there. The stairs are empty, and after taking a few flights down she pushes on a door and they’re soon lining up in the cafeteria.

He doesn’t want anything, doesn’t think he can swallow anything, but somehow she put coffee and a bland sandwich and saltines on a tray for him. He looks at it, then looks at her.

"Try," she says. She’s nursing her own coffee, and she’s got a second one waiting, next to a large pretzel. "We’re going to be here a while."

If he lives. He’s got to live. If he doesn’t, Frank is going to find who shot Red and he’s going to kill them, slowly; then he’s going to go after everyone else – all the assholes that Red went out to stop, to fight, but Frank won’t be so nice. So soft. So _Catholic_ about it.

He’ll kill them; he’ll kill them all. No remorse. No Red to stay his hand, then.

"Holy shit, when you said it was bad… Oh god, coffee, I love you." A chair squeals on the floor, and Nelson falls into it. "Frank."

He grunts.

"Right, yeah, totally. Anyway, I’m going to pretend that having you here is perfectly normal, okay? I can’t… deal with everything at the same time." He gulps down some coffee. "Ah, I needed that. So I just talked to the doc; surgery went alright and Matt’s in the ICU now. Brett put a cop he trusts to guard him; he said we’ve made enough enemies to warrant it."

"Why do they talk to you?"

"They?"

"The medics."

"Medics? This isn’t war, Frank." Well, agree to disagree. "I’m his attorney. Brett called me; I got a cab and rushed here." More coffee. "Can’t believe it finally happened when he _wasn’t_ doing his usual shit."

"Mahoney knows?"

Nelson doesn’t reply; he’s picking his pretzel apart, not eating any of it.

"Officially, no." Karen is speaking to her empty coffee cup. Her face is gray. "I think he suspects."

Frank pushes his coffee to her, but she pushes it back.

"It’s going to be a long wait." She stands up and adds, "I’m getting us some more."

"Yeah, we’re going to need it." Nelson has basically powdered the pretzel now, and now that Frank looks a bit more closely he can see how pinched he looks.

"You holding up?" Frank tries. He sounds like he feels: raw. Empty. Karen looks at him with something like pity in her eyes, and he focuses on his hands again. There’s still some blood under the nails, blood that he didn’t manage to scrape out earlier in the shower. He wants to take his knife and take it all out, but he’s vaguely aware whipping out a knife in a hospital cafeteria is probably not a good idea.

"My best friend and partner – work and business partner, Frank, I’m not stealing your man – was run over and shot and we don’t know…" He clears his throat. "I hope I don’t look as murderous as you."

Frank drinks some coffee. What’s he supposed to say?

"And it wasn’t even his own fault, his own fucking choice, this time. It was bad luck; being at the wrong place at the wrong time. He spends his nights doing, well, you know what, and this – _this_ is what puts him here."

"I should have…"

"No. It’s _not_ your fault or his, and you probably saved his life. But I’m furious I can’t put my hands around the necks of whoever did this right now." Nelson makes a pile with the pretzel powder. A little pyramid, like a king’s tomb made out of flour. "Did you see anything?"

"I’ll find them."

"No! No, I didn’t mean that you should go after them."

"I will."

Karen comes back with three more coffees and another pretzel. "Eat it, this time," she says.

Nelson draws it to him and then just zones out. Frank’s own guts feel as twisted as the pretzel.

"What were you two doing anyway, tonight?" Nelson pokes at the snack, still doesn't eat it.

"You can imagine."

"But you were not fighting anyone when it happened, right? Brett said it was near Joe’s."

"Yeah."

"Matt never said you were that close." Karen leans forward, suddenly curious, almost aggressive. "Was he hiding something? Is there something to hide? Is he lying again?"

"Hey, Karen." Nelson takes her wrist, pats it. "Later, yeah? Not now."

"It’s fine. Nothing to hide."

She narrows her eyes, but Nelson doesn’t back off.

"It doesn’t matter, okay? It’s not important. _Matt_ is, right now. The rest can wait until we know he’s going to… until they tell us he’s going to be fine."

Frank can’t stand the place anymore. He can’t stand the smells of food, the chatter, Karen’s questions and Nelson’s placating.

He pushes away from the table and says, "I’m going to the ICU." They’ll have to let him in at some point, yeah. Whether they want to or not. And the cop guarding the ICU – he wants to see them. Mahoney’s all right, but Frank suddenly needs to check the perimeter and check that guard. Probably some wet-behind-the-ears newbie he can’t trust with Red’s life. He takes his second coffee and adds, holding it up, "Thanks."

They don’t stop him.

Once he gets to the ICU, he sees the officer right away. She’s alert; she spots him right away and he sees her shift her stance slightly.

"You can’t be here without ID, sir," she says.

"Don’t have any." Well, he does, but he’s got two sets: one as Frank Castle, one as Pete Castiglione. He doesn’t know which one is the worst choice here. What name did Mahoney give? He looks behind her through the window, but she puts one hand up and the other on her gun. "I’m going to have to ask you to step back, sir."

He shrugs and does as she asks, for now. He sits on a battered chair with what little stuffing it has poking out of the cushion, and settles to wait. He’s a trained sniper; he can wait. He has to trust that the docs and nurses are doing their jobs; there’s not much else for him to do on that front.

What he _can_ do, however, is find out more about those assholes who put Red here. He gets his phone out and turns it on; the officer doesn’t stop him.

` hey do you have access to traffic and private cameras`

`it’s 6AM Frank`

`yeah.`

`shit fine I’ll bite give me the where and when`

Frank sends Joe’s address to David and thinks for a moment. He needs to narrow the time down but not too much; there might be something useful just before that Red and him missed.

` 12 to 2am`

`OK, got it. I’ll let you know `

They had a secure drop for this kind of intel, and David always comes through. Frank breathes out; he’ll get them. He’ll find them and he’ll kill them, slowly.

` how’s Sarah and the kids?`

`come and see for yourself`

`too dangerous for you`

`coward`

`yeah.`

`Thanks,` he adds before putting his phone away.

For now, he waits.


	6. Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter for Bad Things Happen Bingo!

The heart monitor is beeping, slow and regular. The sound’s turned low, but it’s probably already too loud for Red. Or it would be, if he were awake.

The docs wheeled Red out earlier and set him up in a separate room, with still plenty of tubes and monitors and bags of liquids all around the bed, but it looks like they think he’ll make it. Nelson went in first; Mahoney had just arrived and he had a bunch of questions for Frank. Except all Frank could say was, "I don’t know. I didn’t see. I don’t remember."

And it was mostly true, too.

He didn’t tell the cop about David hacking not only traffic cams but also store security cameras, and even the pick-up’s GPS. They didn’t need to know. Frank would get that intel, and he’d go dole out retribution himself. The police, the law, the justice system Red is so fond of even as he operates outside of it every night… they won’t do shit. Not like Frank will.

Mahoney was too nice, too gentle; he spoke to Frank like the officers had talked to him, when he’d woken up with his arms empty and a hole in his head. Frank hated it. When Nelson got out, he just stood up and went into Red’s room.

He hasn’t moved away from the door; he just closed it behind him and stayed there. He doesn’t dare come closer to the bed; he doesn’t even know if he’s allowed.

"I’ll find them," he says. "I’ll get them, Red."

Beep, beep.

Frank thinks of shoving him out of a boat before it exploded, of shooting fucking ninjas dead before they could kill Red. He thinks of how strong he punches, how fearless he is when he’s jumping off a roof into a firefight. He thinks of his feral smile when he knows he’s winning a fight, of the flirting when – shit. They’ve been flirting, haven’t they?

They have.

Frank takes a few more steps inside to sit heavily into the chair right by the bed, and looks at Red’s face. He needs a shave, and his eyes are sunken. He’s wearing one of those paper-thin hospital shirts, one of his arms is in a cast, he’s got a neck brace. He’s got broken ribs, they did something to his liver in surgery, there are tubes coming out of him and emptying into bags hanging around the bed. Drains, Frank remembers. He’s draining into bags. There’s a splint on one ankle, a cannula under his nose. His cracked lips are parted just a little, and his eyes jerking under the lids.

Frank sits in the shitty chair by the bed instead of smashing it against the wall, instead of going out right now and grinding faces into pavement until he finds who did this. He wants to be anywhere else but here, watching Red. He can’t do it; it’s not – it’s not Red. Red is an asshole, a do-gooder, a ninja, a goddamn tease; he preaches and he rants and he punches harder than anyone Frank’s ever met. He’s not _this_ ; he’s not a broken body lying on a bed, bloodless and lifeless.

Not quite lifeless. He makes a noise.

"Red."

The broken arm twitches and he groans.

"Yeah, you’re a mess, Red."

When he tries to move his arm again Frank reaches out and gently pushes it back down on the bed.

"Stay put, yeah? Everything's…" He clears his throat. "You’ll heal. They said you’d heal."

Red’s eyes open; it looks like he’s trying to move his head. The beeping gets faster.

"Wh…"

"You’re in Metro General, Red. You got hit by a car and shot, but you’ll be okay."

He moans; the monitor speeds up again.

"You want Nelson? He’s your buddy, yeah?"

But Frank doesn’t get to call for him. He’s kicked out of the room as a nurse comes in; he’s left looking at the off-white wall in the neon-lit corridor. David hasn’t messaged; why hasn't he called back? Frank needs to do something, and going after the assholes who did this – a car and bike chase, hitting people, shooting them… yeah. That’s exactly what he needs to do, in fact.

He’s about to call David when the nurse comes out again. "You can go back in," he says. He’s gone before Frank can ask what happened, if that was normal. Maybe it was.

He goes back in.

Red looks calm; his eyes are closed again. The chair has been pushed aside, so Frank sets it right by Red’s bed again and sits down. What’s he supposed to do? He knows the only thing he could do well right now is avenge Red, but he’s still waiting on David; he won’t manage to focus on anything else. He’d be sloppy; there would be collateral damage, and the altar boy would be furious. Frank wants blood, but seeing all the blooming bruises on Red and the drained fluids around the bed makes him want to puke. It’s not Red’s blood he wants to see; it’s everybody else’s.

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to dole out death and he wants to see Red live.

The cast is bright white, whiter than the sheet it’s on; Frank lets a finger slide on it, elbow to wrist.

"My boy," he says. "Frankie. Frank Jr., but he hated it when we called him Junior. He broke his arm one day, fell from a tree. Same arm. He was…" Frank laughs, then he has to swallow. He can feel tears in his eyes, a sob crawling up his throat. "Oh, he was smart. He guilted us into giving him everything he wanted for two weeks, all the toys and the food and… yeah. We’ll go to Joe’s, okay? Soon as you’re released, soon as you can. It’s a date, yeah? Like you said."

Frank puts his palm flat on Red’s chest, just to make sure he’s really breathing. He doesn’t trust the machines, not like he trusts touch. Up, down, pause. Up, down, pause. He feels heavy, so heavy; he lays his head on the not-quite-white sheet, just for a minute. Just to rest his eyes.

When he wakes up, he finds someone threw a blanket over him. It didn’t do anything to prevent his neck and shoulders from stiffening, but at least he’s warm. He cracks his neck and rubs his bristly face, and it’s only afterward that he sees the nun. She’s sitting on the other side of the bed, her back ramrod-straight and her fingers tight around a rosary, her eyes on Red.

"Welcome back," she says.

"Sister."

"I brought some of the leftover cookies." Her eyes finally leave Red to stare into Frank’s soul, or at least it feels like that.

He follows the direction she’s pointing at and finds a tin on a small, wheeled table behind him, next to a Thermos. "That coffee?"

"It is. Help yourself; you look like you need it."

He sure does. He doesn’t feel up to eating, but he probably should; he’s got plans for later. He gets up, stretches, and pours some coffee in a plastic cup. "Want some?" he asks, tilting the Thermos.

She shakes her head, and he goes back to the bed. He doesn’t sit again, though; he stands there and looks down at Red. He’s still a mess, of course, still bruised and pale. The corners of his eyes are tight. "He in pain?"

"He won’t tell us. He woke up earlier, but he didn’t say much." She pauses. "He knew you were here."

Frank grunts. Is he supposed to answer that? She’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t have anything to offer her.

"It seemed to comfort him," she adds, almost probing. He won’t rise to her bait; he shrugs and drinks some coffee. "Mr. Castle," she starts again.

"Frank."

"Frank. I’m not asking for the details of your relationship, but I would ask you not to get yourself killed, or sent to jail." She stands too, and takes Red’s wrist in her hand. Her fingers are thin but strong, like the rest of her; she’s wiry, and he’s pretty sure she always gets her way. "He’s going to need… The doctors said recovery could take a while."

"Yeah," he says, eyes on Red’s lips. They’re thin with what has to be pain, and Frank wonders if Red’s really asleep, or if he's faking it. "He’ll make it."

"I think he’ll do better with his friends around."

"He’s got friends already."

"And you, what are you to him?"

He’s no one. He’s Frank Castle, a guy who takes out the assholes who needs taking out, which means he can’t be Red’s… friend, or whatever it is she’s picturing. The one time they tried to do something else, Red got hit by a car and shot, and now he’s a broken mess of a man in a hospital bed.

He looks away.

"You know what I do."

"Yes."

Then what does she expect? Frank is lost, and he hates being lost. He likes knowing where he stands; he likes when things are clear and simple. Identifying a target, planning how to take them out, executing the mission. He takes his phone out and – yes, he’s got a message from David.

"Thanks for the coffee," he says and turns to throw his cup in the trash.

"Frank," he hears behind his back. It’s a whisper that’s more air than voice, but it’s loud in Frank’s skull.

He doesn’t turn around. "I gotta go."

"Don’t."

"I got intel."

"Don’t do it."

"It’s not like you can stop me, Red."

"Matthew, no!"

Frank turns to see the sister pushing Red’s shoulders down; the idiot is obviously trying to get out of bed all while looking like it’s killing him. It could be; there’s a light blinking above the bed that he doesn’t remember seeing earlier. "The fuck, Red? What’s it to you anyway?"

"Please…"

Frank watches him, watches his eyes open, unbothered by the harsh neon light right above his bed. The idiot can’t move his head, can’t see him, but Frank still feels speared through the chest. "I’m damned already; you know that."

"No one," Red manages between gritted teeth. He’s panting, with red blotches high on his cheeks; he looks terrible.

Above the bed, the light blinks faster, and the sister glances up at it before pinning Frank with her own gaze. "That's the heart monitor," she says.

The door slams open and the nurse from earlier hurries in, glaring at them. "Please leave the room," he says. "You’re stressing the patient too much."

"It’s me; I’m leaving." Frank gives a last look at the bed and adds, "I won’t then. Not today," before stepping out.

The sister follows, and plants herself in front of him before he can retreat. "Frank."

"Sister."

"I told you; it’s Maggie." He raises his eyebrows; what’s that got to do with anything? "If you break his heart, I will–" she stops, closes her eyes, breathes. Opens them again. "Matthew is very good at some things, and spectacularly bad at others."

Frank thinks of how he ended up here, pushing Frank to safety and not getting himself out of the way in time. "He’s good at saving others, not so much at saving himself." He fights like that too; he gives his all in every hit and would rather waste his energy in fancy ninja stuff instead of a quick and efficient shot.

"Yes." She stabs his chest with a bony finger. "He wants to save you."

"I don’t need saving." Well, he did last night, and Red did save him. But that’s not what Red wants, not really. "I should be the one in that bed, not him. I can find who did that."

"Revenge won’t mend his bones."

It will make Frank feel better, and teach other assholes to think twice before doing that kind of shit. That’s something, at least. "Can’t hurt."

"He believes this," she points at the closed door, "is worth it, because you’re alive and well now. If you do what you want to do in his name, take the risk to get injured or killed in his name, then you’re saying _this_ ," she points again, "is for nothing. Do not–" she clears her throat. "Do _not_ break his heart. Understood?"

"I understand."

She takes a step back; he knows she noticed he didn’t agree to play nice and spare anyone. "I’ll pray for you."

"Better pray for him."

"I always do." She nods and he gives a last look at the door.

He won’t be back.


	7. Chapter 7

Red is down for weeks. Well, Murdock the lawyer is back after only two; Frank hears about it on the vine. He’s not going to court yet but he’s back doing whatever it is lawyers do, at least part-time. Frank doesn’t know and doesn’t care; it’s just his landlady who comes one day and talks about what repairs she needs and tells him about that brave local boy, you know, that blind lawyer who got hit by a car, or was it a truck? who’s already back working for his community. She says he’s helping her nephew after a wrongful termination.

"Can you imagine?" she asks. "They say he was badly hurt, but he doesn’t let that stop him! I knew his parents, you know, back in the day; they lived next door. He takes after them; he sure does."

Frank doesn’t care. "Right. Repainting the staircase, anything else?"

"Hmm… Mrs. Takeshi on the second floor, she said her lock’s broken. Can you look into that?"

"Sure." He adds it to his list. More work, something to do with his hands, that’s good. His hands want to kill; his brain wants to kill; he sees red whenever he lets himself think too much. He needs to not think. He fixes things for Joana; he cleans his guns; he goes for runs mornings and evenings. Frank doesn’t want to remember the faces of those assholes from the pick-up truck when he found them, their screams when he shot a few knees and ankles. He’d wanted them dead, but as he put the barrel of his gun to their heads he saw Red trying to get out of his bed, desperate to stop him.

He went for crippling them instead.

He’s not sure why; he only promised Red not to kill them on that one day, and he didn’t. He went back to his van, checked nothing was missing, went back to his place to look at David’s intel. Then he planned.

He chased them first, hunted them for a week, but when he went in for the kill – he couldn't. And since then, he’s been trying to forget it. Forget why. It’s not his style; he’s not merciful. _He_ doesn’t believe in second chances, in do-overs. But Red does, and the thought stopped him.

"Pete?"

"Uh, yeah, sorry. Was thinking of how much paint I’ll need."

"You don’t need to start today, you know."

"Don’t have any other plans."

"Hm. Do you mind?" She gets a pack of cigarettes out. "I’ll open the window."

He shrugs.

"It’s a bad habit; I know, but I could never really shake it. And you know, now that I’m thinking of Jack… It’s been what, twenty years?"

"Battlin’ Jack?"

"Well, who else? He didn’t smoke, but Maggie did. She was the one who gave me my first cig, too. Can you imagine? Little Maggie, fresh out of the veil, slipping 14-year-old me one of those slim cigarettes… I thought she was so classy!"

Frank tries to write down numbers – ceiling height and corridor lengths and feet and inches. Gallons and ladders and brushes, all mixing up in his head. He gives up and ends up doodling paint cans and banisters. He doesn’t want to listen, but he can’t escape.

"I wonder if she still smokes," Joana says, lost in her thoughts.

"Ain’t she dead?" Red went to an orphanage; when his dad died there was no mother to take care of him.

"Oh no, she went back to the church."

Frank drops his pen. "What?"

"She got sick after she had the baby so she went back to the convent, took her vows. She’s still there, as far as I know."

"What convent? Where?"

Joana eyes him curiously; his sudden interest hasn’t gone unnoticed. "I think the one that manages the orphanage? I left the Kitchen soon after; I didn’t keep up with the local news." Her eyes widen and she hurries to tap the ash out of the window before it falls on the floor. "Wow, and that’s where the kid must have been sent to, after Jack was killed. That must have been tough."

Maggie. _Maggie?_ He can’t believe it. _Sister_ Maggie? "Yeah," he manages. He can’t say she doesn’t care about Red; he saw she did, with his own two eyes. And yet she let that little boy grow up thinking he was all alone in the world? _Why?_

"You know, now I’m back in New York, I’ll have to look her up. She probably doesn’t remember me, but I do her." Joana crumpled what’s left of her cigarette on the window sill. "Well, their son’s done well for himself, anyway. And he looks about as strong-willed as either of them. I hope he recovers from that accident."

"Right." He’s reeling.

"Well, looks like you have your work cut out for you, Pete; I’ll leave you to it. Glad we found this little arrangement, yes? Send me the bill for whatever you have to buy, and I’ll pay you back." She stuffs her poison sticks and lighter back into her purse, shakes his hand, and sees herself out.

Frank is left staring at her empty chair, wondering how anyone could do what the sister did. She abandoned Red, that’s what she did. And she also threatened Frank if he ever hurt her son. Does Red know? Frank knows he’s missing some parts, that he doesn't have the full picture. He knows that he shouldn't think about it, that he’s got a job to do.

Paint, he tries to think. Fix the water damage on the top floor, remove the crumbling plaster, fill in the holes, paint. Joana wants red plinths and door jambs, and he can’t escape the roiling thoughts.

Tonight, he’s going out to bust the drug ring that meets every Thursday evening two blocks away. That’ll change his mind.

Shooting up the assholes who thought they could sell their shit to the kids around here wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped. Now that he’s back in his one-bedroom apartment, contemplating the shitty burrito he bought on his way here, he just wants to go back and put a bullet in each of their skulls.

Because he didn’t, and the reason he didn’t is because every time he raises his gun he sees Red on his hospital bed, fighting a nun to stop Frank from killing anyone. His mother, in fact, and that sure is… something. He doesn’t know what, but something.

He looks at his burrito. He doesn’t want to eat it, but it’s there and he should eat something, so he makes himself fuel up. He lived on rations for weeks as a Marine; he can eat a damn burrito even if he doesn’t feel like it.

He knows what he needs. He needs things to get back to normal; he needs Red sneaking up on him to lecture him about not killing people because Jesus or whatever, and that would annoy Frank right back into pumping lead into criminal skulls. That would restore balance; that would put things right.

But Red is not anywhere near being able to parkour all the way through the city to get on Frank’s nerves just for fun, and that will only happen _if_ he ever recovers. He was in pretty bad shape. He bounced – shit. Frank saw his body bounce on the pavement, saw it jerk when he was shot. He’s seen worse, much worse. He’s _done_ worse. He thought he was immune now, that nothing much could faze him, now. Not after Maria and the kids.

Turns out some things can, and he’s none too happy about it. Turns out he still has something alive and beating in his chest, that he’s still human. He’s not quite all dead inside. He takes his phone out and looks at David’s last message:

`it’s Leo’s birthday next month. She’d like to see you.`

Frank never replied, but he knows he should. No time like the present, yeah.

`you know I can’t`

Well, someone’s not sleeping; David replies right away.

`no I don’t. You’ve come before, and nothing bad happened. Also there’s a leak in the bathroom, and Sarah said she only trusts you to fix it.`

Frank sighs. He could justify it as preserving a source of intel, but the truth is – the truth is, he misses them. He wants to go, and not just because David is useful. He wants to go because he _likes_ them.

He sets the phone down on the table; he can’t reply right now. He can’t even decide what to do with this thing going _thump, thump_ in his chest. It’s not just powering him through being the Punisher, no. It’s also, somehow, keeping Frank Castle alive. Does he want to be alive? What does _alive_ even mean, for a guy like him?

He sticks what’s left of his burrito in the tiny fridge and goes to bed.

He’s got work to do tomorrow.

The next day, Frank starts working on the hallway. He scrapes, sands, replaces, fills in, nails some floorboards back in place; his hands are hurting and his back is stiff but when evening comes, he’s tired, and that’s what he wants.

He wants to sleep, and not dream. He doesn’t want to remember; he doesn’t want the nightmares.

They don’t come as often, now; he’s learned to manage. He thinks about Lisa when he sees kids on a school trip to the museum, of little Frankie when he walks past an ice-cream truck. He lets the memories come during the day, the good times they had; he doesn’t ever want to lose any of that. As long as he has those, they’re not forgotten. He won’t let that happen, ever. During the day he’s in control of what he remembers, and Lisa’s smile and Frankie's pout are enough to keep their deaths at bay, when sleep comes. Most of the time.

He still has Maria’s ring, too. He keeps it with the papers he has in his real name, the few photos he still had, the medals and military records Curt got back for him and insisted he keep. The shoebox is a shrine to a past life, and he hardly ever opens it, but tonight he does.

Maria’s looking back at him, and it still feels like she has him wrapped around her little finger. Anything, he’d do anything to bring them back. But nothing will.

The ring’s fallen to the bottom of the box and he fishes it out, marveling once again at how much smaller her fingers were than his.

"I miss you," he tells the picture. She doesn’t reply, of course; she never does. But he can imagine what she’d say: _Stop moping, Frank; get a grip. Get on with it. I love you; now move on_. Jesus, every time he was about to go on tour again _she_ was the strong one; she was his rock. He used to be a mess, eager to go and wanting to stay at the same time, but she’d kick his butt and then manage everything back home, her job and the kids and the house and everything… and then forgive him for loving war so much he signed back on again and again. He never loved her enough, he never could have.

She’d laugh at him, if she could hear him.

He touches her face on the photo before gently setting it back into the box with the ring, and closing it. The lid is flimsy cardboard, but it still feels like a gravestone every time.

He doesn’t dream of their deaths.

When he wakes up, his phone is blinking: he’s got voicemail.

"Hey." Frank almost drops his phone. "I heard about what you’ve been up to. Brett told me they found the guys who got me, and I can press charges because they’re still alive. So, uh, thank you." There’s a raspy sound, like Red’s scratching his beard. "I’m not sure I’m grateful to be alive, but I… yeah. I’m grateful you didn’t kill them. Thank you for that, too. I wish you all the best, Frank; I really do. So… yeah. That’s it. I guess that’s goodbye, then." Then there’s a click, and the message’s over.

Frank stares at the wall in front of him. What does it mean, _I guess that’s goodbye_?

He doesn’t think; he calls back. No one answers, so he leaves a message too, and hangs up before he can delete or change it.

Then he gets up and looks at his tiny closet. He’s going to shave, he’s going to put on a white shirt, and he’s going to see a lawyer about a hit, shoot, and run he witnessed.

He doesn’t knock; he just lets himself in the tiny offices of Nelson & Murdock, attorneys at law, and Page, PI. Huh, that’s new. There’s a small desk in front of him, a laptop open next to some files on it, and voices coming from beyond a door that’s left ajar. He sits on one of the second-hand-looking chairs, and waits.

"Okay, I’ll – _oh my god!_ "

"Foggy?" Karen pokes her head out of the small office and sees Nelson frozen in place, looking at Frank. "Oh, hi Frank."

"What are you doing here?" Nelson hisses.

"I got questions."

Nelson pinches his nose then smooths his hair back, looking determined. "Questions. About what? Want to sue the Marines?"

Frank looks at the once-white ceiling and hopes for strength. "I was there," he says. "When Red – Murdock. The accident. Figured maybe you’d need a witness."

"Oh. Oh, right." Nelson nods and waves Frank inside the room he was just leaving. "Let’s talk about it, then. Matt’s agreed to press charges; I know Brett said he talked to you but I don’t think it’s anything official."

"No." He’s not even sure what he told the cop, at the time. "I got papers under another name, if that’s better," he adds as he sits down.

"It might be. I’ll let Brett know; your testimony could be useful."

Frank writes down his number on a piece of paper he hands Nelson and Karen pushes a tray with a box of donuts, mismatched mugs, and a jar of coffee in his direction. "Are you in touch with Matt?" she asks.

"No." He pours himself some coffee and tries not to spit it back in the mug when it hits his tongue. It’s _terrible_. "Well, kinda; he left me voicemail this morning, but nothing before."

"He talked to you; that’s good."

"Not really." Frank picks a plain donut, hoping it’ll make him forget the coffee, or what’s supposed to be coffee. He was lied to; it isn’t. "Sounded like he didn’t think he’d be out again with the mask."

"Well, he’s stuck home and he hates it, but he’s working hard to get better."

"That so?" Red spoke more like he’d given up, like the Devil wouldn’t meet the Punisher ever again.

"Oh yeah, definitely. You know him, he says stuff like," Karen drops her voice and does a pretty fair imitation of Red’s growl, " _Murdocks got the Devil in ’em_ , or _We Murdocks always get back up;_ you know, that sort of thing." She waves fists in front of her face, and Nelson’s nodding and smiling at her.

They don’t look worried at all, and suddenly it hits Frank. Red told him goodbye, and he meant it. He didn’t tell _them_ , and Frank isn’t sure why but he’s sure about what he’s got to do. He pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. "I should go," he says. "Thanks for the… donut."

"Yeah, Karen’s coffee takes some getting used to."

Nelson winks at her, but she slaps his arm with her notepad.

"Make your own next time, Foggy!"

"Aw, but you got here first today; it was your turn!"

Frank shakes his head and leaves them to their bickering; he doesn’t want them to trail him. He doesn’t say where he’s going, and they don’t ask; it’s fine by him. He can’t fathom why, but it looks like Red kept some things from his friends but not Frank, and he wants to know why. It’s like a responsibility, _his_ responsibility, and Frank's not the kind to run away from those.

He knows where Red lives; he even knows where he hides a spare key – well, ‘hides.’ But the closer he gets, the more urgency he feels; he walks faster and faster.

When he finally reaches Red’s low-rise, his stomach has turned to lead and he takes the stairs up at a run.

He doesn’t even need the spare key behind the radiator; the door isn’t locked. Idiot.

Frank gets in and checks the apartment, but no Red. The bed is unmade; there’s a blanket on the couch, two crutches leaning against the wall.

Wait.

What are the crutches doing here, near the stairs to the roof access door? He looks up. The door is open.

"The fuck, Red?"

He climbs up and steps outside, the cold air more biting up here than at street level. And…

"Jesus," Frank says.

"Not quite." He doesn’t turn around, and all Frank can see is his back. And smoke, a lot of smoke.

"What are you doing?"

"Isn’t it obvious?"

Frank comes closer and sits right next to Red. "Not really. What are you burning?"

Red shrugs, or tries to. One shoulder moves, but the other one only twitches and he hisses. "Stuff."

"Right." Frank looks at the arm still in a cast, the splinted ankle; he thinks his ribs must still hurt, his gut too. Shit, how did he even get here? "We should get back inside."

Red waves a hand in the direction of the door. "You know the way."

"Yeah. Stairs. Must have hurt like all hell to climb up here."

"Didn’t want to burn down my place; I’d have been in trouble with the landlord."

Frank sighs. He watches the fire, mostly embers now. The wind is pushing the smoke away from their faces for now, but ash is still in the air. He spots a bit of rope, darkened by soot, to the side. One end is charred; it looks like it rolled away from the shallow firepit. The roof is uneven, and Red just dumped his stuff in a ditch between two concrete slabs. "Looks like clothes," he says. "What you’re burning."

"Yeah."

They keep silent for a while, as the fire dies down. Red is shivering a bit, but they’re both pretending he isn’t.

"Why are you here, Frank?" he finally asks.

"You left me a message."

"I didn’t ask you to come."

"Didn’t ask me not to either."

"It’s over. _I’m_ over. I can’t do what I did; I can’t work with you anymore."

"Broken bones heal, Red."

"It’s more than that." Frank waits. "It’s…" He shakes his head. "It’s just over."

"You’re a dramatic little bitch, you know that?"

"I’m half-deaf; my balance is shot, and I – I’m useless, now."

"You got my message?"

"Didn’t you listen to what I just said?" One of Red’s hands, the one on the unbroken arm, curls into a fist.

"Sounded like a load of bull to me."

Red frowns at the embers. "You should have stayed away."

Oh, that’s it; Frank’s pissed now. "What kind of man do you think I am?"

"It’s…"

"No, _really_. You think you can say _Goodbye_ in some shitty voicemail, and be done with it? You think that’s how it works? Uh?" He wants to shake Red, maybe sucker-punch him.

"You think you can call me back and say – and say what you said? You can’t! You can’t."

"Sure can. And I mean it, too. Don’t tell me you’ve been teasing me for weeks just to back out on me now."

Red doesn’t reply; he just shakes his head and slumps forward a bit more. He looks exhausted.

"Let’s get back inside, yeah?" Frank doesn’t let him get a word in; he just slides an arm behind Red’s shoulders and one behind his knees, and lifts. Red yelps and grips Frank’s neck, and he doesn’t let go until Frank deposits him on his couch. He just blinks when Frank drops the afghan on his lap, and mostly looks confused.

"You look cold."

"Oh." Red slowly runs a hand on the fabric before looking – well, ‘looking’ – in Frank’s direction. He’s almost nailing it, too. "I’m fine."

"Sure." Frank goes back up on the roof to tamp down what’s left of the embers; when he’s back inside Red hasn’t moved. "You should take a nap or something."

"I’m not tired."

The purple skin under his eyes says otherwise, but it’s not really Frank’s problem. He doesn’t want it to be. "You hungry?"

"You don’t have to – to _mother_ me. I have some work to do; I’ll just get down to it."

"Can’t you just say _please_ and _thank you_? I thought you were raised by nuns, Red." He doesn’t mention the nun who was his mother.

Red rolls his eyes; Frank wonders if it’s something he learned to do before he lost his sight. "Like you’re any good at it."

Curt would agree and Maria would laugh, but they’re not here. She’ll never tease him again, never tell him to behave and be nice to the neighbors again.

"What’s wrong?" Red asks.

Frank almost replies he’s fine, but that’s Red’s catchphrase, not his. "What, my heart beating weird or something?"

"Your breathing. I can still hear that, but your heart…" He turns his face down. "I’m almost deaf in one ear, and I have tinnitus, on and off, in the other. They said it might just be until the swelling goes down and my…" he waves a hand at his ear, "head, I guess, recovers. It’s happened before, but not both, deafness _and_ the ringing, for so long. I can manage when there’s not a lot of ambient noise, not a lot of people talking at the same time, but I can’t rely on it like I used to. Not anymore."

"Are you even supposed to work?" Back in the Marines, you had mandatory downtime after a concussion.

"I promised Foggy; I can’t let him down, not after what I put him through. I won’t."

Frank supposes he’s not really in a position to tell him what to do with his friends; it’s not like he’s any good at it. He should text David, in fact, but he’s not sure what to say yet. "Want your laptop?" It’s on the round table near the kitchen counter, next to some thick folders and a Braille reader.

"You don’t need…" Frank sighs as noisily as he can. "Okay."

So Frank brings him his laptop, reader, and folders, leans the crutches against the couch for easy access, checks the fridge and the cupboard and the windows, where he can feel cold drafts coming in. Red is reading something in his folders, a small frown on his face. He looks like Frankie when he was doing his homework, so Frank leaves him be and calls Nelson from the roof.

Mahoney looks briefly surprised when he sees him, but doesn’t say anything until Frank sits next to him on the bench.

"Foggy didn’t tell me it was _you_ ," he says.

"Boo."

"Ha ha, you’re funny." Mahoney wraps what’s left of his sandwich and sticks it in a paper bag. "So, why am I meeting you instead of having lunch in peace?"

"Where are those assholes?"

"I’m not telling you shit, Castle; I don’t want you to go and shoot them up."

Frank won’t lie; he’s sure thought about it. "Not this time. Nelson said I could testify."

"I’m not sure Frank Castle's word is what Matt’s case needs; what’s Foggy thinking?"

"I got other papers."

"Illegal ID won’t cut it."

"They’re legal; Madani made sure I had an out if I wanted it."

"You didn’t take it."

"I did. It didn’t stick." Frank leans back against the cold wood. "Not totally, anyway. I still use it, but it’s not who I am."

"Well, it would sure serve Matt better to have a random dude as the boyfriend than the Punisher."

"I’m not…"

"Save it; I don't care. Though ‘boyfriend’ would go down better than, _I kidnapped the blind lawyer_ or _We’re just good friends who go out for food at 1am_."

"Yeah, maybe."

Mahoney rests his elbows on his knees and doesn’t say anything for a while. He’s looking at kids rough-housing near the park slides, but Frank won’t. He looks at the gravel between his feet.

"How’s he doing?"

"Huh?"

"Matt. How’s he doing, really? Foggy says he’s doing alright, considering, but it was pretty bad."

"He’s… not great."

"Figures."

Frank takes an envelope out of his jacket and hands it over. "Copy of my ID, and my number. Call me when you need me."

"Will do." Mahoney stands up and picks his paper bag, nods at Frank. "Dye your hair or something, yeah? I don’t want half the precinct to try to kill you on sight when you come."

Frank scratches his chin. "I’ll find something."

He watches the cop walk away, back in the direction of his car; he leaves the bench soon after.

After a detour to buy some foam and caulk, he climbs back up to Red’s apartment. The hallways aren’t much better than those at his place, really; he wonders what the landlord’s like. There's damage from the quakes that really should be fixed before it gets even worse, but then again that’s not Frank’s problem. He’s going to check in on Red, see if he wants his windows fixed, and then go back to his place.

Frank’s got work to do, and he’s thinking maybe he could go check that gambling ring he’s heard about. He doesn't give a shit about gambling, but he does give a shit about rigging the games to get people so far into debt they’d do anything to get out of it. Things that Frank really hates, in fact.

He hears voices when he pushes the door open, and he finds the nun in the kitchen. She’s stacking boxes in the fridge and doesn’t look surprised when she sees him.

"Hello," she says.

"Sister."

She straightens up and closes the fridge. "I brought him some food, but you're welcome to it too."

"It’s not for me." Red’s not on the couch anymore, but the bedroom sliding door is closed.

"He’s asleep, yes. Coffee?"

Well. "Yeah." He remembers his manners and tries again. "Yes, please."

Her face clearly says she’s trying not to laugh at him, but he tries to ignore it. He takes the mugs she hands him and sits at the little round table when she points at it, and waits until she joins him with a tin of cookies he’s pretty sure wasn’t Red’s and the pot of coffee.

"Do you visit often? He said you were just by earlier."

"No." He takes a cookie; it’s got sprinkles on it. "We’re not… we just know each other."

She takes a flask out of her bag and adds a generous dose; when she tilts it in his direction he shakes his head. "You _know_ each other, hm."

"I was there, for the accident."

"I know. He’s talked about you a little." She raises the doctored coffee to her lips but doesn’t drink. "How ironic, that he got run over and shot but not while wearing his mask."

"You know about that?"

"Of course." She gives him a Mona Lisa smile and finally sips some coffee.

He nibbles on the cookie and thinks about the question burning his tongue; should he ask? He looks at the closed door. Maybe he’s listening, maybe he’s not, maybe he can’t hear them now even if he’s awake. She’ll stop Frank if she needs to, right? "My landlady remembers you," he says.

"Oh?"

"Name’s Joana. Said she remembers you slipping her cigarettes when she was a teen."

"Joana?"

"She was your neighbor."

Maggie frowns into her coffee. "Hm, I don’t… oh. She went by Jo, then." She sets the mug down on the table, but doesn’t look up. "Did she tell you anything else?"

"Yeah." He glances at the bedroom. "Does…"

"Yes. He knows," she replies curtly.

"She has good memories of you."

"It was a long time ago." Her fingers are tight around the ceramic, her knuckles white.

"It wasn’t your fault," he says. "What happened."

"But it happened." She stands up quickly and smooths her clothes with quick pats. "Take some cookies before you go," she adds, and if she’d literally kicked him out her intentions wouldn't have been any clearer. Well, he’s not a little boy at Sunday school anymore, so he stays put. He hasn’t finished his coffee, for one thing.

She crosses the apartment, gently slides the bedroom door open, and goes in. She sits on the covers and it looks like she’s brushing hair off Red’s head, more gently that he’d have expected her to do.

That’s what does it, in the end; that’s what makes him leave. He’s intruding, and this is a family moment where he doesn’t belong.

The image stays in Frank’s mind for the rest of the week: Red in his bed, his mother caring for him like she probably never did when he was a child. He thinks about it as he paints the hallway, he thinks about it as he sets plastic all around a warehouse filled with drugs and weapons, he thinks about it as he looks at his face in the cracked bathroom mirror. He’s growing a beard – he’s absolutely _not_ dying his hair, whatever Mahoney said – but after a few days, it doesn’t look like much more than heavy stubble. It will take a few more for it to really hide his features, and for now it’s a bit itchy. There are some white hairs in there, a reminder he’s not getting any younger.

If he wants something, he shouldn’t dick around; he should go for it. What’s he got to lose?

He tells David he’ll come soon, texts Red every day. `Did you try Maggie’s sugar cookies?` he sends. `Can fix your windows Quick job, got supplies.`

Red finally calls him one evening, as Frank’s looking at a satellite map of the docks.

"Hey." He doesn’t know how to go on after that. He hasn’t tried to flirt in so long, and Red is prickly when he’s not in control.

"Hi," Red replies.

"How are-"

"Do you want-"

They both pause.

"You first," Red says.

Right. "How are you doing?" It’s not what he’d been going for, but maybe talking drafts and caulk isn’t the smoothest play here.

"Better. I can walk a bit now."

"That’s good." He wants to ask about the ears, but he doesn’t know what he’ll say if there’s no good news.

"Yeah. So I, uh. Thank you, for talking to Brett." He laughs, just a few puffs of air in the phone. "Looks like it’s all I can say now: thank you."

"They’re not bad words."

"I owe you."

"You don’t owe me shit. We’re good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That’s too bad, I thought I could… um. I thought we could, you know."

"Could what?"

"If you’d like. If you’re still… if you're free. One of these days. I can walk a bit now."

"Yeah, you’ve said." Jesus, Red sounds nervous; it makes Frank smile at the kitchen wall. "I’m free now."

"You don’t even know what I was gonna say."

"Been waiting long enough; it better be what I’m thinking it is. We’ll do Joe’s another day, yeah?" He looks at the time. "I can be at your place in 30."

"I… okay. Okay."

"See you then," Frank says before hanging up. He takes the box of condoms he bought two days before with him when he leaves his place; it’s not like he’s going to do any caulking tonight. More like some nailing, if things go well. His cheeks hurt with all the grinning he can’t quite contain as he drives to Red’s place.

Red sleeps like it’s serious business. They woke up right before dawn, when the sky was barely lightening up, and went for another round; since then he’s been out cold and Frank feels stupidly proud of it. In a good mood, Red never shuts up, but it looks like there’s an off-switch after all. He’s lying on the side that didn’t get rammed by that pick-up, breathing slow and regular. The sun is higher up now, and Frank isn't really the kind to sleep in, but he’s not feeling any urgency. He doesn’t really want to leave the bed. He woke up with Red’s hair up his nose and his body warm under his arm, and it’s been a long time since he’s had that: a quiet morning, someone to share a bed with.

He raises himself on an elbow and looks down at Red’s profile: there’s the tiniest frown on his face, and Frank readjusts the broken arm so it rests on a pillow. It does the trick, and the frown disappears. It makes something go tight in Frank’s chest, that he can help, can make Red feel good. Comfortable.

Their early morning activity made Frank very aware of the temperature once the heat of the moment was passed, and Red told him to help himself with whatever he wanted in his dresser; now Frank’s sporting a faded sweater and sleep pants that make him feel like he’s 80, and Red pulled on a particularly old and shapeless shirt that could, at least, accommodate the cast. He’s even put on some ridiculous socks that Frank’s own gran wouldn’t have sniffed at. They’re not going to make the cover of Sexy Dudes Magazine in that outfit; that’s for sure, but now Frank knows what’s under the shirt, now he’s seen it and touched it and – yeah. And Red seems to like what Frank has to offer so they’re doing all right, even with geezer fashion.

Frank settles on the pillow again; he doesn’t want to leave their little bubble, wants to keep the rest of the world outside for a little longer. Even with his eyes closed, Frank can tell it’s going to be a bright, sunny day, but for now all that matters is this: Red’s slow, regular breaths, Frank’s palm on Red’s belly. It moves with every inhale and exhale, and even Frank’s rough hands can feel some of the scars. Red survived them all and now he’s here, alive. His heart is pumping blood, his lungs are filled with oxygen. He’s warm. Frank rests his forehead against Red’s shoulder and gently falls back into a light doze.

The city grows louder outside; cars driving by and sometimes honking, people shouting, a radio or a TV blaring; a neighbor locks their door then hurries down the hallway, a dog barks somewhere in the building. He should check the time, but his phone is in his jacket, which is… somewhere in the other room; he ought to make sure it’s not lying anywhere Red could trip on it and break more bones. But his free hand is right over Red’s hipbone, and he doesn’t want to move.

Another neighbor is leaving their apartment; the sound of the lock is loud. How can Red cope with all the noises, with his bat ears? Well, maybe that’s why he’s sleeping so – shit.

 _Shit_.

It wasn’t a neighbor’s; it was _Red’s_ door. Adrenaline floods his system and he sits up; he hears soft steps and some tutting, things being moved, put down. They don’t sound like a threat and the tread’s too light to be Nelson’s, but Frank thinks – should he hide? His jacket’s out there, his boots too - he’s pretty sure they’ve just been relocated from that muffled thunk – and it’s not like there’s any place to hide. He can’t fit in the dresser and hiding under the bed seems stupid and…

The bedroom door slides open and sister Maggie, the _mother_ of the guy he’s all cozied up to _and_ a nun, looks down her nose at him. Her arms are crossed, and her expression… Frank pulls the cover a little higher over his chest and feels like he’s just gone from old geezer to naughty schoolboy in two seconds flat. She’s terrifying; she’s five foot nothing with her shoes on but her glare is _this_ close to incinerating him. She turns away and stalks back to the kitchen, and Frank supposes that’s his cue to leave the bed and face his fate with his head held high.

He slides out from under the covers taking care not to jostle Red, closes the bedroom door, and makes his way to the kitchen. He rubs the back of his head and looks at his toes, naked on the cold floorboards.

"Coffee?" She looks and sounds like she wants to eviscerate him, and he wonders if nuns know special poison lore.

"Please," he replies. He thinks saying _No_ to anything she’d ask would be a wrong move.

She points at a chair and he sits while she busies herself with the coffee-maker. She manages to be fairly quiet while she does so, and Frank wonders if Red will wake up anytime soon. Maybe the smell of coffee brewing would do the trick?

But the bedroom door is still closed and there’s no sound or help coming from there when she sits in front of him, so he’s in it on his own.

"Frank."

"Ma’am. Uh, sister."

She pins him to his chair with her glare, and he doesn’t even dare pick up the coffee to have something to do with his hands. She’s going to tell him he’s damned, tell him about mortal sin and hell. He braces himself.

"Matthew is blind." He nods, wary. "He is still recovering from serious injuries. You’ve dropped your jacket, your shoes, your shirt, everywhere on the floor, with no regard to how unsafe that is for him, in a space where he relies on things being where he knows they are." Should he look down? Should he hold her gaze? "You are also wearing his favorite hoodie; it doesn’t fit you and you’re going to stretch it out of shape."

"Uh…"

She leans forward, both hands flat on the table. "Do you really, Mr. Castle, do you _really_ , want to deal with Matthew when he’s having a sulk? Are you truly ready for that?"

"I…"

Finally, she cracks up. She chortles behind her hand, her eyes crinkled with humor. "Oh, you fell for it, didn’t you?" She bits her lip to muffle her laugh, then speaks again. "Well, I meant it about the clothes on the floor, and he does love that Columbia sweatshirt, but the panic on your face… did you go to Catholic school?"

Frank’s shoulders relax, but he still feels guilty about not picking up his stuff. "Sunday school. Lots of scary nuns too."

"Oh, I bet. We get lessons about that, during the novitiate."

He picks up his mug and eyes her. "Have they changed their minds about same-sex stuff, too?"

"We deal with real people in the real world, here, not doctrine." She shrugs. "I know some sisters would have opinions about it, but not that many, frankly. What I want is for Matthew to be happy. There’s a lot I don’t know about his life, and I’m sure some of it I’d find hard to accept, but that?" She shakes her head, then drops the smile. "But if you hurt him… Punisher or not, it won’t matter."

"Not planning to."

She nods, then sets down a box from a bakery he knows two blocks away. She picks up a very sharp-looking knife to cut through the tape holding it shut, and he decides it counts as another warning. Shovel talk, nun-style. The baked goods are also what finally makes Red emerge from the bedroom, sleep-rumpled and shuffling forward in his stupid socks like a zombie, once she starts toasting the bagels. Frank has to concede Red would probably have taken a tumble over Frank’s discarded shirt if the sister hadn’t picked it up; as it is Red narrowly evades the couch, which has been threateningly occupying the exact same position for weeks, at least.

"Smells like…" Red freezes.

"Good morning, Matthew."

Red’s horrified face almost makes up for Frank’s earlier moment of terror.

Over the next few weeks, they spend more nights together. Frank’s beard grows, the cracks around Red’s windows are caulked, Joana’s hallways are painted, and Red loses his cast. He still seems to be adjusting to his new reality; Frank often sees him frowning and touching his ear, his head to the side. He goes to the office every day, does his PT exercises, and even asks Frank to come spar with him.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

"I need to…"

"You don’t _need_ to break an arm again."

"I won’t!"

"I’m not sparring with you."

"Oh come on, Frank! How am I ever gonna learn to work around my…" he waves a hand near his ear, "my loss?"

"You seem to be doing fine." Well, mostly; better not mention how much he misses or that Frank has noticed how he avoids loud, crowded places. He favors one side, one ear, too; he’s not going to be jumping rooftop to rooftop just from smell or air drafts or whatever. It would be rooftop to _bloody smear on pavement_ , and Frank refuses to let Red kill himself out of stupid pride.

"I’m useless like this."

Jesus. "Is your job useless?"

"I’m Daredevil."

"Red…"

"Yes! Yes, _Red!_ Red’s him – me, Red’s what I do, and I can’t do it now! Not unless I work harder."

"You’re going to get yourself killed."

" _I’m already dead!"_

Frank stares. "…the hell?"

"Why are you here, Frank? I can’t do what I used to, and you won’t help me get back to it. We can’t go after whoever supplied the McKinneys–"

"I got them."

"–and I can’t even hear when someone needs help. What am I supposed to do?"

"Get better. Be a lawyer. There’s no shame in that."

He shakes his head. "I used to do more, be more. I can get back to what I was; I did it before. I have to!"

"Yeah, maybe you can. But not if you try to go too fast and end back up in hospital, Red."

"Why do you keep calling me that?"

"Why not?" He shrugs, then adds: "I shrugged." Nelson lectured him about it, so he tries to remember. He first met Red as a fighter who would see things coming even from behind him, and that perhaps should have been a clue he wasn’t, in fact, _seeing_ them. He never thought he needed to describe gestures, but there they are now. Red can't rely on his senses as much as he did before, and – and he can’t call him Red anymore. "You still got red glasses."

"So I’m told," he replies. He sits heavily on the couch. "Not that I can tell."

He looks upset; and Frank doesn’t know what to do to get him out of this funk. "We can work on reflexes, maybe. Precision, speed. Just no hitting; it’s too soon. You just got the cast off."

Red – Murdock – Matt? nah – Red lifts his head. "Yeah?"

So that’s how they add evenings at an old gym to their routine; it’s an old-fashioned place where everyone knows Red and no one seems surprised to see a blind guy wrap his hands and hit the bag. When they leave, Red and Frank stay, and that’s when they do more than stretching and punching leather. It seems to help, and Red even seems to improve, little by little. He seems more and more comfortable with noisy places, he doesn’t ask Frank to repeat as often, and best of all he doesn’t say anything when Frank mentions he’s going out to hit a wannabe mob or destroy a meth lab.

With Red still out of commission, Frank still feels conflicted about killing; it’s like he’s filling in for Daredevil, and Daredevil doesn’t kill. But one night, he’s out far away from the Kitchen, and bullets fly out from his gun. It’s efficient, and while he doesn’t shoot to kill he certainly shoots to make them stop moving, and if that means a kill, then it’s a kill. He doesn’t care; those guys were running sweatshops and exploited folks that had come to America for a better life, not that shit. He pumps them full of lead, and that’s that. And if he lets some of the workers know about one particular firm to represent them, it’s no skin off his nose. Red and Nelson, bleedin’ hearts that they are, will love to help them out.

Of course, when he meets Red for lunch the next day, Mr. Catholic just _knows_.

"I can smell the gunpowder on you," he says with a frown.

"I _showered_."

"It’s on your jacket."

Frank grunts. "So what? You don’t like it?"

"You know I don’t. You’d stopped, until last night." Red’s fingers are worrying his paper napkin, and he’s not eating.

"That a problem?"

No reply; Red’s lips just get thinner.

"You know who I am, what I do. I’m not gonna change."

"Yeah," Red finally says. Eventually, he picks up his sandwich and starts nibbling, and they change topics.

Mahoney confirms the assholes who hit and shot Red had belonged to some mob from upstate who were fighting to get a foothold in the city after the McKinneys were weakened, and the case grows against them; there are more arrests and it looks like they’re going to be in jail a very long time for a long list of crimes. Frank won’t go and end them himself because Red wants them tried and sentenced the legal way, but they’re the only ones that are off-limits.

So Frank has lunch with Red, fixes Joana’s laundry room in the afternoon, spends the evening doing recon. Or he stays the night at Red’s, does odd jobs here and there to keep the Pete Castiglione cover alive, and bashes some teeth in (and stops at that) when he goes to a corner store and interrupts a holdup. That was entirely unplanned, which makes Red beam at him like Frank’s just said he had found Jesus or something. Not that it’s cute, because it isn’t.

Frank is looking through the scope on his rifle. This asshole, right there in his crosshairs, is the head honcho of the weapons-smuggling ring that Frank’s been working on dismantling for a while. They used to provide the McKinneys’ rivals and it’s that guy’s muscle who’d been driving the pick-up that hit Red, so Frank’s got beef with this Fattuci guy. He’s managed to decimate most of his outer and inner circle, to the point the boss himself had to come here, to New York, to do his business. And now, now Frank’s got him. Fattuci’s in talks with Turk, because no one else wants to deal with the guy after all his contacts ended up dead, in jail, or in hospital. Well, Turk doesn’t want to deal with him either, but Frank can be persuasive; Turk is a decent informant if not a decent human being.

Frank watches and waits for the right moment; he doesn’t want to hit Turk. Well, not tonight anyway. As soon as he sees an opening, a direct path for his bullet, with no streetlight or window frame between his barrel and Fattuci’s skull… There are steps behind him, unhurried. Whoever it is, they’ll have to wait for their turn with Frank. He pulls the trigger, sees Fattuci go down, and turns around.

It’s Red.

He’s wearing his black outfit, gloves on his hands, and even his mask, although he’s pushed it up. He’s got one hand wrapped around the wrist that was in a cast not so long ago. Frank lowers his rifle.

"You’re back?"

Red shrugs. "Not really, not yet." He limps closer, his head to the side. "You killed him." It’s not a question.

"Yeah." He gestures at Red’s arm. "You hurt yourself?"

"It’s fine."

Frank’s not sure what to say. "How did you get here?"

"I’m better; you know that. I’m not ready to be Daredevil again, but I’m getting there."

Franks starts packing his rifle; whoever’s left of Faettuci’s men might get ideas and come check the roofs. They might just as well cut their losses and run, but Frank’s not taking the risk to wait and see. "Why did you come, then? Are you here to lecture me? Fight me?"

"Would that make you change your mind?"

"You know it won’t."

"Then I’m not."

Frank’s more and more confused. "You got all this way here just to fuck up your arm again?"

"My arm’s _fine_ ," and ha, finally, a reaction; he’s pissed. "You said you’d come to the gym tonight, and you didn’t. So I went looking for you and I found you here, killing people instead of…" Instead of meeting Red.

"He deserved that bullet."

"No one _deserves_ to die."

"Don’t tell me you never wanted to end anyone; I know that’s not true."

"But that’s it! Wanting to do it doesn’t mean you should, and…" He shakes his head. "I didn't come here to fight with you."

Frank snaps the rifle case closed. "Looks to me like you did."

Red takes a step forward, another; he’s clearly favoring one side. "Who was it?"

"An asshole."

That gets him a quirk of the lips. "Yeah, I figured." Another step. "Frank."

"Yeah." He watches Red hesitate, then finally cross the one foot left behind them. "What is it, Red?" he says in a low voice. It’s a quiet moment, up there on a cold rooftop, the sounds of car engines and barking dogs a background noise they’re so used to that it doesn’t really intrude.

"Still Red, huh." He rests his head on Frank’s shoulder, turns it so he’s breathing into Frank’s neck, warm and damp and alive.

"I’m not calling you Matthew; your _mother_ calls you Matthew, and I’m not your mom." He slides one arm around Red’s waist, pulls him just a little bit closer, feels a shudder run through his body.

"Didn’t know you knew."

"I don’t know shit, Red." He lowers his head, feels his beard catch in the wool of Red’s mask. It’s true; he doesn’t know shit. Why Red came after him, what he wants from Frank, what goddamn sense it can make, that they’re doing this. Whatever _this_ is. He just knows it’s good, even when Mr. Fists And Justice is in one of his moods. Frank’s fully aware he’s got his own moods, too; Curt’s told him often enough.

"Let’s go to Joe’s," Red says. "Let’s have that cheeseburger special with fries."

"Extra fries?"

"Extra fries."

"It’s a date," Frank replies.

He isn’t the kind to go back on his word, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i managed to stick all six prompts in there, somehow, for fun ^_^

**Author's Note:**

> Broken bones  
> Gunshot wound  
> Hospital


End file.
